


CAW CAW

by EmSheshan



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, Animals, Blood, Crying, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John sees george naked a lot, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ravens, Slow Burn, The Crane Wife - Freeform, Transformation, Vomiting, they do kiss!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 91,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan
Summary: John takes a raven home after it gets injured.The next day, he wakes up with a naked stranger in his bed.The two events have no correlation whatsoever.
Relationships: George Harrison/John Lennon, George Harrison/Klaus Voormann, John Lennon & Paul McCartney
Comments: 471
Kudos: 305





	1. Raven

The three waited outside the office, waiting for their manager to emerge. For the past two weeks, the trio consisting of John, Paul, and Ringo was trying (and failing) to sign on a record label. They were extremely fortunate to get a manager willing to work for them, but finding someone to help produce their music was much more difficult.

"It's been half an hour," Paul said in between long drags of his cheap cigarette. "That's the longest discussions have lasted." Despite his optimistic words, his voice was apathetic.

"Geez, try to sound a little more excited, will ya?" John commented, looking up from his magazine.

"We've already burned through a dozen labels and not a single one of them gives a crap about us," he pointed out, and John loathed to admit he was right. Turning to Ringo, Paul gave an apologetic look. "I'm sorry you're stuck with us, Ritchie. You can go back to play with Rory Storm if you'd like. If I knew what a bust this was, we wouldn't have stolen you."

To John's surprise, Ringo merely shakes his head. "If I wanted to play with Rory, I would never have left 'em. You two are good, don't discount yourselves like that."

His speech was heartwarming, but John couldn't bring himself to say what was on his mind. That fact that if they don't get a label, he might have to disband the group and get a real job. But before he could share his thoughts, Brian exited the office.

He didn't smile, but there was a strange air about him, different from the other times they've been rejected.

"The label agreed to sign you," he said after a moment, and Ringo's eyes lit up. He was the oldest, but he was also the most optimistic. It made him quite childlike in his innocence. And with his innocence, he was about to celebrate when Brian cut in with, "Wait!" He cleared his throat. "They agreed to sign you on... if you get another member."

The excitement was let out like a deflating balloon.

"But three is plenty," Paul argued, but Brian shook his head. 

"Either we get a fourth member or give it up. There's no other record labels we haven't tried yet."

John sighed and stood up. "Alright. Paul, Ringo, let's go. We can find someone, easy. Ta, Eppy, we won’t let ya down!"

Their manager shook his head at John’s words but was smiling. There was a sliver of hope in his eyes.

* * *

And so they left the office, Brian leaving them. It was apparent he didn’t have the most confidence in the trio, and John felt obligated to agree. He wouldn't show it in front of the others, though. He felt it owed it to Ringo, at least.

“Are you seriously just going to walk down the street and ask ‘Hey, can you play?’ That’s not going to work,” Paul stated while frowning.

“And have you got any better ideas? We need a new member, so I'm getting one! All you've done is complain—”

"We have to do this smart! Hold an audition, for crying out loud! If you ask strangers, we'll only get talentless loaves—"

"It's better than no loaves at all!"

"Both of you, stop!" Ringo shouted, and the two quieted. "We need to hold an audition, John. We’ll have to do it tomorrow since it's too late today." True, the sun was already sinking under the sky.

"Yeah, that's fair," John relented after contemplating his words. Paul smugly nodded along to John and spoke.

"Let's meet at my place tomorrow at nine, then."

"Alright, nine at night," John snarked.

"In the  _ morning _ , John," Paul huffed. "Please don't be late as you usually are."

"When have I  _ ever  _ let you down, dear Paulie?"

"Too many times to count," Paul said with a playful smile.

The trio split and John trotted back to his cheap flat. He was old enough to move out, but not so much that he could afford anywhere decent. A tiny, one-room flat was all that awaited him at the end of the day. He could have lived in a nicer place with Cynthia but didn't. She's a wonderful girl, but John couldn't commit to her. He couldn't even explain why to himself or her, either. 

"It would be nice to have someone to be with," he muttered to himself. "Someone waiting in bed for you..."

If he wanted to, he could probably hook up with Cyn whenever he wanted to. Despite his rejection of her, they had parted as friends. There wasn’t any bad blood between them, just a strange awkwardness. Strangely enough, Paul seemed rather pleased that John wasn't with Cynthia. He even invited John to stay at his place, but he refused Paul as well.

He’s suddenly interrupted from his thoughts by a small cry and a thud with the sound of glass breaking. It seemed to have come from the right and when John’s eyes went to look, they widened.

Two men, most likely drunk, had thrown a glass bottle at a raven. The bottle had shattered on contact, and the bird fell to the ground. Their laughter rang out against its cry.

They wander away, contented with their abuse, slurring meaningless words to each other. John doesn't know why he's so pissed about two bastards harassing a bird, but he was. His blood was rushing to his head as his fists clenched. But he wasn't going to attack the pair; he was going to help the wounded creature.

It’s huge, a little less than twice as big as most ravens he’s seen. It’s motionless against the cold, dark sidewalk. Its black wings were awkwardly bent, and there was a small spot of blood on the pavement.

An involuntary "shit" erupted from John's lips. Abandoning it would be paramount to sentencing it to death, especially with how dark it was. John himself only saw the bird because of the cry of pain it made. He crouched down to pick it up as gently as possible. It was still breathing, but it didn't respond to John's touch. And so he wandered back to his flat, carrying the dirty bird bridal-style.

The door creaked open and John could finally rest. He placed the wounded creature on a nest of towels he made on his bedside stand and moved to open the window. If the raven decided it was well enough to fly again, then it could be free. 

It was unconscious, and so John took the opportunity to pet it, running his fingers through its silky feathers. As far as birds go, this one was rather beautiful. John wished he knew how to help it recover, but he didn't want to accidentally hurt it more. All he would do is let time heal it. 

He pulled out a small roll of bread out and put it next to the raven. Just in case it woke up and was hungry. With that, he began to shed his clothes and fell into bed. 

"G'night there, little buddy," he yawned as sleep slowly took him.

Tomorrow, he would find a fourth band member and have his dream finally come true. As he began to fall into a deeper slumber, his dreams fell into a nightmare. Dreams are usually just a string of random images, but this one wasn’t pleasant. In it, Paul and Cynthia were chasing him in a forest, and he was running away from them. The whole world was in greyscale, and there was no sound other than their repeated chanting of the words, “It’s time to come home.” He loved Paul and Cyn, but the nightmare made him fear them. He kept on running until his foot snagged on a loose branch. The two grabbed him and before they could harm him, John wrenched his eyes shut and prayed he would wake up.

For a moment, he lay in bed, too frightened to open his eyes. Eventually, after his heart rate slowed, he did. The ceiling stared back at him. It was the same old flat, no Paul trying to kill him. He turned to his side to click on the bedside lamp because there was no way he would fall back asleep. When he moved, however, something was wrong. There was a large mass next to him, and when he lifted the blanket to see what it was, he screamed.

There was a naked man in bed next to him.


	2. Stranger

“Fuck!” was the first thing out of John’s mouth, then a series of indiscriminate grunts and thuds as he fell to the floor.

There was a naked man in his bed. He sat up at the sound John had made and was now staring at him with his piercing brown eyes.

“Get the hell out of my house!” John screeched, but the man didn’t flinch at all. He just reached his arm out to grab the piece of bread John had left out for the raven.

That’s odd, the raven was nowhere in sight. As the wind from the open window hit him, he realized the bird had flown away. Which means the stranger had climbed into his flat from the window.

“Get out!” he screamed again, and the man tilted his head ever-so-slightly at John.

“Do you understand what I’m saying? English?” He pointed to the window. “Out!”

The man let out a bizarre squawking noise before climbing out of the bed, still nibbling at the bread. With how nonchalant his movements were, John knew he hadn’t snuck into his bed to rob or attack him. The situation was extremely bizarre, but it wasn’t dangerous.

He looked at John and let out, "Sorry. I was cold."

John just stood there flabbergasted. "Are you homeless?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes...?" the man replied slowly.

This man had broken into his house because he had nowhere else to go. John felt like an asshole for screaming at him to get out, but on the other hand, he was breaking the law. 

"You can, uh, leave now," he mumbled. The man just stared. Was he slow?

He was about to repeat himself when the man merely said, "Okay." He wandered back towards the window to jump out of it, but John caught him.

"Are you fucking insane?! Just stay there," John commanded. Turns out the stranger was a complete lunatic and was going to go out completely in the nude. If word got out that a male nudist was going in and out of his flat, well... he didn't want to think about the connotations. Bending down to pick up some old clothes, he said, "I have to get a guitarist for my band. I don't have time to deal with you." He shoved the garments into the stranger's arms. "Get dressed and go out through the door, not the window."

The man merely nodded and awkwardly shoved himself into the pants and shirt. It was easily apparent the outfit was too large. The man was unhealthily skinny compared to John's larger physique. 

"I'm not giving you shoes," John said as he slowly buttoned up the shirt. "Alright, here's the door." He held it wide open and the skinny man walked through.

"When should I come back?" he asked.

"Hopefully never," John replied and shut the door. What a lunatic. Some homeless kid, not completely there mentally. Giving him some clothes was his kind act for the day. Thank god John wouldn't have to deal with him again.

It was far earlier than nine, but John decided to head over to Paul's anyway. Just to mock him for asking him not to be late. He prepared something resembling breakfast, whilst humming a tune that had suddenly come to him in the midst of his thoughts. _I should pitch this to Paul later,_ he thought. Making a mental note of the melody, he began to get dressed.

A naked stranger is a bizarre place to find inspiration, but the tune he was now singing was good. As he thought of what chords to play, he looked over at the open window.

With a firm resolve, he shut it close.

* * *

"Well," Paul said, "this has been a complete drag."

"Agreed," John grumbled from next to him.

Ringo exhaled through his nose. "Are you two going to do this tomorrow?"

"What? Of course we are, aren't you? Paul asked.

"You two are the guitarists, you don't need a second drummer. My opinion isn't really important."

"You know you'll be stuck with whatever bloke we find for years if we actually get the record deal," Paul huffed.

"I know, but I'm not really needed here. Besides, I trust you two to find someone good."

"I'll do me best," John said. "Can't force you to stay."

They had camped out at the bar all day, guitars in hand, begging people to audition. However, it hadn't gone well. All the potential players were nowhere close to being talented, just kids who thought it'd be fun.

"We'll listen to one more, and then we'll pack up and try again tomorrow," Paul decided. As John bent over to light up a cigarette, he heard Paul's voice. Someone new approached them.

"Oh, you're here to audition?" he asked, and the person he spoke to said in a quiet voice, "Yes."

Something about the voice seemed familiar, and when John looked up, the cigarette fell from his lips. The person who came to audition was wearing his dirty clothes, far too big on him.

It was the naked stranger.

"No. Not him," he said and began to leave.

"What? Hey, John! Where are you going?" Paul shouted after him.

"Home. We're not letting _him_ in!" He said, pointing at the stranger.

"Why not? You haven't even heard him play yet."

" _Because,_ he's an absolute freak. Broke into me house!"

"What?"

The two began to argue amongst themselves and Ringo turned to face the man. Well, boy really. He looked younger than the rest of them. His clothes were oversized and he wore no socks or shoes.

"What's your name, son?" 

The lad stopped staring at John to face Ringo. Nervously picking as his frighteningly long nails, he replied, "George."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Ringo, and those two are Paul and John. So, are you gonna play something?"

"Uh, yeah. Can I have a guitar?"

"Sure." Ringo handed John's guitar to George. "Let's see what you got."

He took the instrument and experimentally strumed it with his fingernails. He could tell it was out of tune, and quickly fixed it. Then, he began playing.

John stopped squabbling with Paul and looked over. There was something familiar about the song he was playing. It took a moment for John to realize it was the exact same tune he hummed that morning. This skinny kid, with his hair sticking up all over the place, was playing the tune he hummed through the window.

He could only have heard it once, and yet here he was, going at it with a surprising level of Grace and skill.

Paul broke his stupor by asking, "What song is that?" 

"The one John hummed this morning," he replied. John could only stare with his jaw dropped. He didn't even use a pick; he delicately plucked the strings with his fingernails.

His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. There was no doubt about it: he was good. Damn good. Which meant that:

"How would you like to be in our band?" Paul asked earnestly and John groaned. This skinny freak had to join the group.

"Welcome aboard," John said with a forced grin. George merely smiled back. "Glad to help."

This just wasn't John's day.


	3. Name

They had split, with Paul excitedly chattering to Brian on the phone while John taught the guitar parts to George. He only had to sing them and he was able to automatically convert it into frets and strings.

John loathed to admit it, but he was talented. George knew nothing about the intricacies of the instrument. If you asked him to play a diminished D chord, he’d just stare at you. But chords can be taught. John learned them, for crying out loud. He was about to get into his lesson when Paul asked, “What’s his name?”

“George,” John replied.

“No, no, his last name.”

John looked to George for the answer, but he seemed just as clueless.

“Do you... have a last name? Is ‘George’ even your real first name?” he asked as though it physically pained him to say the words.

“I- I just picked it,” ‘George’ said after a moment. “I can pick another one!” he quickly added.

“No, no, that’s...um... Paul?”

“Sorry, hang on Eppy,” he said into the phone. “What?”

“I don’t think he  _ has  _ a name,” John whispered.

“There’s no way,” Paul whispered back, more to himself. “Hey, George?”

“Yes?”

“What name do your parents call you?”

“Uhh...”

“God, do you even have parents?” John snorted.

“Well, yes, I'd need two to be born...” George trailed.

Paul turned back to the phone to tell Brian he'd call later. Ringo, back from getting some drinks had caught the tail end of their conversation.

"Son, are you telling me that you don't have a name or family?"

_ Or a house? _ John mentally added.

"I can see why you didn't want him in the band," Paul muttered. "It's not too late to find someone new."

"Christ, you two! He doesn't have anything and you want to turn him away!" Ringo shouted. "He's in."

"Come on, Ring—"

" _ He's in. _ " He repeated, and the tone of his voice gave a definite finality. George was going to be in the band, evidenced by Ringo suddenly hugging him tightly. George looked surprised at the physical affection but was soon leaning into the contact.

"Since you don't have a last name, I suppose you get to pick one. Anything you want!"

Paul shot a look at Ringo. "That's not how last names work!"

"Sure they do! I picked me own after all. So, what are you thinking?"

George stared off in thought for a moment before replying, "Harrison."

"You could pick any name and you went with that?" John asked.

"Dunno. Felt natural."

Paul then furrowed his brow. "George Harrison. There's something about that name that feels familiar..."

"I bet he stole it off of a poster somewhere. Anyways, I gotta take a piss," John said as he left the room. Partly because he needed to pee but also to clear his head. Was George's talent really worth all the hassle of...  _ him? _

Would he be able to take direction in the studio? What about touring? God, Eppy was angry when he saw how unhygienic the three of them were, how mortified would he be at George? He doesn't even wear shoes for crying out loud!

He washed his hands and left the bathroom. When he returned, Ringo and Paul were gone. All that was left was George, still clutching John’s old guitar.

“Where’d those two go?”

“They left,” George said, gently plucking at the strings.

The two stared at each other in silence. “...alright then. See you,” John said as he moved to leave. Unsurprisingly, George wandered after him. John paid him no heed and kept walking. He just wanted to sleep at this point. 

When he got back to his flat, he shot a look behind him. George stared back.

“Alright, piss off. Go back home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

John huffed. “Why didn’t you ask Ringo or Paul if you could crash with them?”

“Didn’t cross my mind.”

A snort. “Well, you better find them and ask, because I’m not letting you in.” With that, John shut the door, leaving George alone in the hallway.

Minutes pass.

“Alright, alright, get in here,” groaned John as he opened the door. George eagerly entered.

“I’ll let you stay,  _ only  _ for tonight.” He said as he rooted in a closet for extra blankets and pillows. “You’re not sleeping in my bed again, though.”

George took the blankets and laid them on the floor, making a makeshift nest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” John replied.  _ I bet you would have waited outside my room the entire night if I didn’t let you in. _

It wasn’t too late, but John had woken up far too early. Now, he was just plain exhausted, especially after dealing with George’s bizarre antics. He cursed his soft-heartedness. If he didn’t rescue that wounded raven, he wouldn’t have opened the window, which means George couldn’t have gotten in and learned about the auditions. He could have avoided the entire situation with him.

But then again, he didn’t want to leave that bird to bleed out on a sidewalk. And if he was that nice towards a raven, couldn’t he be that nice to a person? If he didn’t let George in, would he freeze or starve out on the streets?

John’s head was abuzz with the moral implications of everything. Sleep was what he needed right now, not the crazy barefoot man who just happened to be good at guitar.

While undressing, John snuck a peek at George. He too was undressing, but unlike John, he was removing everything. John regretfully caught sight of George’s bare ass and cock for the second time that day. He lamented,  _ Why couldn’t I have gotten a normal guitarist? _

George buried himself in his pile and drew still.

_ Sleeps like a lunatic too.  _

“Tomorrow,” John yawned, “we’ll introduce you to Eppy. He’ll clean you up, and we’ll get you a guitar, too.”

George’s head peeked out from under the blanket nest. “Alright. Hey John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you open the window for me?”

John gazed at the window. He opened it, but only a little. “I don’t want you inviting any freaks in here, alright?”

George chuckled. “I won’t.” Then, “You’re a good person, John. Thanks for everything.”

John was caught off guard by his compliment. The words came out so genuine he didn’t know how to react. “Uh, no problem. Night.”

“Night.”


	4. Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow update: it was the holidays and I couldn't justify writing fanfiction over spending time with family.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy

The first thing John did upon waking was check on George. He might have let the lad sleep in his flat but he didn’t trust him. As his eyes wandered across the room, he saw that his blanket nest was upturned. A cold sweat broke out on John's forehead. Did he climb out of the window? Shit, what if he actually robbed John this time? He was already searching frantically when his eyes glanced past the window.

Sitting on the windowsill was George, holding a rather nice-looking guitar.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “Christ, mate, you scared me. What’s that there?”

“A guitar. You said I needed to get one.”

John sighed and then examined it closer. It was a beautiful instrument; despite George’s eclectic nature, he had good taste. John was about to say as much before he saw the price tag still attached to the neck. Observing it closer, he blanched at the price.

“Shit, Geo, did you steal this?”

George didn’t respond, which meant he most certainly did. His silence painted him terribly guilty.

Yet instead of yelling at him, John asked the question, “Did you get caught?”

“No,” George said, afraid that John was not pleased with him. He had taken the guitar to save John the trouble of getting him one, but apparently that was the wrong course of action. However, despite his concerns, John merely laughed in response.

"Well damn. You got one fine instrument," John chuckled.

George gaped at his reaction. "You're not mad? Didn't I break the law?"

"Mean, you did, but I don't care. I used to nick records all the time back then. But a piece of advice for you," John spoke as he peeled the bright sticker off of the neck, "take the price tag off."

George let out a breath of relief.

"How'd you pilfer this anyway?"

The scraggly young man grinned. "A master never reveals his methods."

"Har har," he mock laughed. "Anyway, you need to get dressed," he said, and before George could reach for the dirty clothes he wore yesterday, John stopped him. "You're not wearing that again. Let me get you something clean, alright?"

John didn't wait for a response and started digging for the smallest garments he owned. George was tall, but he was lanky, taking up much less space than John. He can have whatever John can't fit into.

"Take a shower, then put these on," he mindlessly said as he tossed a bundle towards George. When he didn't hear George move, he glanced back at the man.

"Don't fucking tell me you've never taken a shower."

"A shower's one of those things you use to clean yourself, right?"

John had to fight every urge to slap someone, either himself or George. How the hell did he ever get this far in life?

"Just get in there, turn the water on, soap yourself up, and wash it off. It's should be easy, even for you."

George gave him an odd look before entering the shower with his new garments. The water turned on, and John could only hope he'd do a decent job.

Minutes passed. John realized that if George had never bathed before, he's going to be really slow at it.

_ Fuck it, _ he decided. John wandered over to the small kitchenette and opened the fridge. A half-empty carton of eggs stared back at him.  _ I got time to kill, so might as well do something,  _ he thought, pulling out the eggs. He took out one for George, and then a second one. George was startlingly thin, so he could use some extra food in him. And John himself liked to eat, so he pulled out four eggs total and began to cook.

The shower turned off, but John was too absorbed in the sizzling breakfast to notice. He was serving the eggs with a side of toast when George emerged.

John had to be frank, he looked good. Now that he was cleaned and wearing clothes that fit him better, he no longer looked like a drowned rat. His hair, which had stuck upwards of all directions was tamed and now obeyed gravity. 

He caught himself staring and turned to his meal. “...made you eggs.”

“What? Eggs?” George asked and then noticed the plates. “Oh, for eating!” He then chuckled to himself, but John had no clue why. Probably some inside joke only he knew the punchline for.

John thought he himself was a messy eater, but the way George shovelled the meal in made it obvious why he was so skinny. Poor lad probably never had a decent meal in his life. Or a decent home. Or education.

It’s none of his business how George grew up, so he forced himself to think about other things. Like how he stank and needed to wash as well. He rose and put his dirty plate along with the pan into the sink, walking past George, who was licking the remnants of yolk off of the plate.

He entered the shower and let the hot water blast him. It was clever to send George in first, since now the shower was pleasantly warm. It was easy for his mind to wander, with the white noise of liquid running to help him drown out stray thoughts.

His mind went back to George again and again, The boy was an enigma, very bizarre in his mannerisms. The sheer lack of common knowledge he had suggested only one possibility: George was a feral child. He had to have been dropped off in the forest as a kid and raised by wolves or some other animal. Explains why he’s ignorant of almost any societal norms.

That reminds him; he has to tell George to stop sleeping naked. That little quirk is extremely uncomfortable.

As he rinsed off and emerged from the steamy bathroom, he was pleasantly surprised at the sight of George finishing scrubbing all of the dishes. He had even wiped up so there was no evidence of them eating at all.

Maybe living with the weird naked man wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Thanks, Geo,” he muttered, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. Regardless, George turned around and let out a small “You’re welcome.” John’s face betrayed him as the tiniest smile broke out across its surface. He tried to casually cover it up with his hand before speaking.

“If you’re ready, we can get going now.”

George nodded and slipped on a pair of John’s old shoes. “We’re going to meet someone named ‘Eppy’?”

“Yeah, Brian Epstein. He’s our manager. Just try to, um,” he vaguely gestured with his hands, unsure of how to say “act like a normal human” without hurting George’s feelings.

“Try to what?”

John sighed. “Nothing, let’s get going,” he said.

“After you,” George said, and John found himself leaving his flat with the skinny man in tow.

He could only hope Brian wouldn’t dig into George too bad.


	5. Suit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of this was written when I was sick, so please tell me if there are errors.

Judging by his expression, John could tell Brian was not the most pleased with their newest member. It only made sense: Brian was a polished business man, and George was…

Well, George was George, and that’s the kindest way John can put it.

“So this is your newest member?” their manager asked, and John nodded in response.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harrison,” he said as he stuck out his arm for a handshake, but George didn’t even notice.

“George! Shake his hand!” Paul hastily whispered. Brian watched as George examined his hand like it was a foreign alien coming from space.

“Eppy’s nice, he won’t bite you,” Ringo said with a charming smile, and George finally gave a hesitant handshake. It was extraordinarily awkward.

Eventually, Brian broke the contact and turned. “John? Can I speak to you in private, please?” They wandered away from the other three and further from the recording studio.

“John,” he sighed, “I asked you to find another band member.”

“You wanted another player and I fucking got one."

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to maintain his composure. "John, do you even want this record deal? Or am I just wasting your time? Just tell me outright instead of— of playing these games with me."

"...I want the record," John finally said, but his voice was awfully subdued. He wasn't sure if he actually did, but they were too far in to quit. That's what he kept telling himself, at least.

"Christ, Eppy, listen. He’s a bloody lunatic, can’t stand being with him. But he’s damn good at guitar— it’s the only reason I put up with him,” John huffed, crossing his arms.

“Really?”

“Yeah. You sing a tune once and he can just play it on the spot.” Then, in a quieter voice, “I can’t do that, neither can Paul.”

“Well then,” Brian said after a moment, “if he’s really that good then I suppose he has to be in.”

“I think he was raised by wolves in the wild,” John commented, and Brian chuckled. Even after their short meeting, Brian could already see how George didn’t quite fit into modern society.

They rejoined the other three, who were just chatting, and Brian cleared his throat.

"George, you'll be with me for today. The rest of you get the day off. Tomorrow, we'll all meet up here," he said, gesturing at the brick building.

"We came all this way and we're not going in?" Paul huffed, crossing his arms.

"First impressions are very important, Paul, and George just needs a little cleaning up."

"But I took a shower this morning," George mumbled, and John couldn't help but snort. His hair was still a mess and none of his clothes fit. Brian was going to have to work a miracle to make George look civilized.

"Good luck with that, Eppy," he said with a sly grin. "Paulie, Ringo, let's go."

Paul was content to waltz away with John, but Ringo wasn't. John seemed far too eager to leave George and it bothered him far more than he thought it would. Both he and Paul had offered to let George stay with them, but he was vehemently set on staying with John. Ringo could only hope he wasn't being treated too poorly. 

He turned and gave a small wave to George and left, the young man shyly waving back. Young man, now that's funny. None of them even knew how old George was. And he didn't want to assume, but he doubted George knew either.

They disappeared around the corner and Brian reminded them to come by the front of the studio tomorrow.

"Nine O'clock, sharp." He had incessantly repeated as the three walked away. John hadn't even bothered asking Brian to drop George off at his flat when they were done. He didn't want anyone to know he had actually taken George in. It would make John look... soft.

"Well now, just you and me. Let's get going," he said, as he opened the door to his car.

"What? Where are the others going? Why aren't we following them?" George asked, and Brian sighed.

"I'm going to take you to get some suits tailored and a haircut. And also get to know you better, I suppose."

"First impressions, right?" he smiled, walking towards the car. The two shuffled in and Brian began driving.

"Never been in a car before," George muttered after a moment.

Brian almost slammed the brakes in shock. "Never? Not once in your life?"

"Nope. Can I open the window?" he then asked, moving on.

Brian nodded yes and watched as George put the window all the way down. And then panicked as George climbed out, his entire upper half sticking out of the car. But despite his precarious position, he was calm. In fact, he looked more tranquil with the wind whipping his hair and clothes behind him.

That didn't stop Brian from yelling at him, however. "George! Get back in here!"

But George just gazed back, sending an indecipherable look back at his new manager. He then turned his attention back outside and Brian suddenly felt very inadequate.

There was something different about George that he couldn't put it into words. It was as if he knew something they rest of everyone didn't. Like some kind of grand secret to life.

He pondered it some more as he drove.

* * *

Once they finally arrived at the tailor, Brian vowed to add another excursion onto their list of errands: getting lunch. He knew George was thin, but his large shirt obscured just how emaciated he was. The tailors too seemed confused at his proportions as well.

"Eppyyyy..." he whined. It was shocking how quickly he had picked up on that nickname. "It's too tight," he complained pulling at his collar.

"It's as tight as most collars, I'm afraid."

"Do I really have to wear this?"

"Only when you need to look nice, like when we're trying to get a record deal."

George huffed in response and reached his arms under his jacket to scratch his back, making his frustrations very obvious.

"...I'll wear it for you," he finally muttered after removing the jacket. Brian just stared as as his frighteningly long nails dug into his skin through his shirt. Was he really that uncomfortable?

"Where's the old clothes I wore?" George suddenly asked, head snapping up.

"Here," Brian said as he handed them off, and George gleefully took them.

"So now we can go back to the others?"

"Yes, just let me pay first," Brian said, and George shifted, staring at him. From the way he reacted, it was almost as if he had never seen a cash transaction. 

But there's no way...right?

"George?"

"Oh sorry, I've just never seen a cash transaction before."

It was Brian's foolish optimism that let him down.

"It's really neat, though," George said after a moment.

"What is?"

"Money. You give someone a little piece of paper and you get fed and clothed, given shelter... I think that's what separates humans from animals, in a way. The ability to make these systems where you don't have to kill to survive. Where you can bring each other up instead of taking from one another."

"I— I suppose, but... well, I think that's an idealistic way of looking at things."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... it's a bit difficult to explain. Some people are unfairly... George!" He was about to go into a long spiel about society when looked behind to see that George had already left the store. Brian darted out to see him on the filthy sidewalk, laying on his stomach. He was... chatting? To the pigeons?

Brian couldn't suppress a long sigh at the sight. He thought that John was a handful, even on his best days, but George was going to be the death of him.

But still, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of the lad, talking to the street birds like they were his best friend.

Yes, George was definitely not what he was expecting, but Brian couldn't honestly say he disliked the boy.

He didn't want to say he felt affection but...

Well, there was something there.


	6. Haircut

George was definitely different from most, but Brian felt a great deal of affection towards him. Everything in the world was so new to him, and he wanted to make sure that he safe? Protected? It was hard to put into words, but he could say at the very least he wanted the best for him. 

Which put him squarely in the middle of a moral dilemma. It had started when a voice called to him, breaking his concentration of the mindless magazine in his hands.

“Excuse me sir, but can you talk to your son?”

At first, Brian assumed the woman was talking to someone else, but she didn’t move out of his periphery, nor did anyone else rise.

“Sir?”

Was she talking to Brian? He flipped the magazine down to see that, yes, she was looking to him, and that George was making some kind of fuss.

And then he flushed red. He didn’t look old enough to be someone’s father, did he? Especially George’s, who was an adult? 

“Oh, he’s not my… nevermind.” He followed the woman back to see George whimpering, knuckles gripping the armrest until they turned white, and the barber stood behind him, impatiently tapping his foot. 

“George, what’s wrong?” Brian attempted to ask in the most gentle voice he could muster.

“I don’t want them to cut me!” he cried, and Brian could hear how his voice cracked, a tell-tale sign of panic. He then devolved into strangled gasps of fear. It was like watching a child have a breakdown in a store, but the fact that it was an adult, or at the very least an older teen, made his reaction shocking. 

“George, George, come on…” he tried to console, but the lad in question was too distressed to hear. Christ, his face was starting to get stained with tears and snot. With a sigh, Brian helped pull George out of the barber’s chair and outside where he could breathe in fresh air. It was obvious that George felt most comfortable outdoors, and Brian wanted him to feel at ease.

It took a few minutes of George slowly calming his breath on a bench before he could even look at Brian, let alone speak.

“I’m sorry…” he croaked. “Eppy, I’m so sorry…”

“No, no, it’s fine, alright? Don’t cry,” he said as some kind of paternal instinct kicked in and he hugged him.

Brian was shocked that he had just pulled George into his embrace but felt relieved when George eased into it. It was absolutely stunning how he had just met George that day yet was already so protective of him. Was this normal? Most likely not, but Brian found he didn’t care. There were more important things to focus on.

George wiped at his eyes and spoke. "I shouldn't have cried like that.” Then, with a self-deprecating chuckle, "Made a real fool of myself, huh?"

Brian wanted to agree with him but bit his tongue. George was already heading back into the barber's and Brian wordlessly followed.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Brian started, but George quickly stopped him.

"No, let's go, let's get it over with," he muttered, and the two entered the shop again. This time, Brian made sure to sit next to George and keep him company. The lad seemed to be reassured by his presence. He sharply flinched when the razor neared his ears, but he wasn't falling apart like earlier.

"After this, we can get some lunch, alright, Geo?"

"I'd like that," he mumbled in response.

Brian's eyes drifted down to the ducts of dark brown, almost jet-black hair falling to the floor.

But on the floor was a pile of feathers. Cut in half and snipped, the downy plumage of a bird coated the floor. Before he could even mutter, "What the…" George jumped from the seat.

"It’s done, it's done! he cried in fervor. He didn't even stop to examine his reflection in the mirror. But fortunately, Brian could see and was pleased with the outcome. He looked polished and clean, like a professional with his new suit (ignoring the dirt from the sidewalk on it) and a short haircut. It matched the other three, which means they now look like a unit, a team, a band.

"So we're gonna get lunch now?" George asked as he turned to Brian, a dopey grin on his face.

"Mmhmm, and then I'll drop you off at your home," Broan replied but then realized he had no clue where George lived. "Where are you staying tonight?"

"At John's," George replied.

John's? The same person who repeatedly called George "a lunatic" was letting him stay at his flat? That didn't seem right at all.

"John… Lennon?" he pondered and when George nodded, he continued. "He's taking care of you?"

"Yeah, gave me his clothes, even made me breakfast."

If George was speaking the truth, then John's words and actions completely contradicted themselves.

"And… are you okay staying with John?" George eagerly nodded. If he was okay with it, then it wasn't Brian's place to interfere.

"Is there something wrong with John?"

"What? No, no, it's just surprising, is all. Come on, let's get something to eat," he then proclaimed, shifting the focus of the conversation into food. "Anything you like?"

"I like you," George automatically replied.

His answer caught Brian completely off guard, and a light blush dusted his cheeks. "I— Um, thank you,” Brian said, and the two set off.

John was reading a book when a light knock came at the door. Getting up, he opened it to see a young man with a paper bag in his hand. He was about to say he didn’t want whatever it was he was selling but he froze. 

For a moment, he completely failed to recognize George.

So many of his natural features were obscured by the scraggly mane of hair. John didn't mean to stare, but there was a certain… handsomeness to his face. Sharp, defined cheekbones, deep eyes with full lashes. From an objective standpoint, George was an attractive man. John wasn't personally attracted to him, but he would at least acknowledge his features. George was pretty… far more beautiful than John.

He shook his head. These were very weird thoughts to have, and John didn't want them anymore.

“Christ, mate, you look… completely different,” John caught himself.

“Thanks, here’s your clothes back,” George responded, returning John’s outfit.

“...alright,” John said as he took them. He then looked over at the pile George slept in last night. “I couldn’t afford another bed, but I got you a sleeping bag,” he admitted sheepishly. He suddenly felt very embarrassed about his meager offering. “Sorry I couldn’t get you more,” he confessed.

George didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, already curling up into his now bigger nest. “Thanks, John,” he mumbled as he disappeared under the covers.

“You’re welcome,” John replied in turn.


	7. Hand

George didn't understand anything about record studios and labels. He just played what John wanted him to play and that's all that's important. He had no idea what the man in the box was so angry about but John was muttering curses under his breath and Paul looked wound-up. Ringo too was tensed up, but his face was still impassive. It seemed that their cheap equipment, namely the amps, kept buzzing and rocking and the sounds that got recorded weren't up to standard.

With every complaint the engineer sent, their playing suffered more with pent-up frustration. It didn't help that George didn't know the songs as well as the others. He was trying his hardest, but he just didn't know the intricacies of the recording process. He just does what he can to please John.

John, Paul, and Ringo all knew how the songs go. The majority of time was spent just trying to figure out how to get good sounds out of garbage equipment. As John tied a string around his amplifier, George stared at the glass box the sound engineer was in. There used to be a man who looks to be in his twenties in there, but now an older gentleman was inside it too. 

"Hey John?" he whispered. John played him no heed, but George didn't like the newcomer. There was some strange spark of fear that jolted up his spine when he looked at the man. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"John, there's someone here," he said and felt him shudder under his touch. John's ear was tickled by George's hot breath as he looked up over at the box. True to his word, there was another man there but George was shaking far more than he should at the sight.

“Mate, what’s wrong?” John asked, grasping George’s hand.

“I— I don’t like him. I— ” He didn’t want to say scared, but…

“Hey, it’s fine, he’s probably some repairman or something,” John reassured, but he stopped when he caught sight of Paul. The younger lad was staring at the two of them and John suddenly realized how bad they must have looked. George had his head on John’s shoulder and they were touching, holding hands.

In a flash and a fit of panic, John pushed George off of him as the newcomer in the box spoke.

“Alright, you four, get ready to play,” he said and John realized in a cold sweat that this man wasn’t a simple repairman.

He was _George Martin,_ the executive producer.

Quite possibly the one person they need to listen to and impress the most. No wonder George was so frightened. John’s heart probably skipped a beat too.

George pulled himself up off of the floor (John didn’t realize he shoved him so hard) and stood with a hurt expression. 

John didn't mean to harm George, but he didn't want to be seen as queer.

He refused to acknowledge how nice George's touch was or how he didn't even notice how close they were before Paul silently judged him with his gaze. 

George… George didn't care about being affectionate with someone else. He either didn't know or didn't care, and thus was very honest with his feelings. It was refreshing because John didn't know anyone else who was as open as him. Paul wouldn't just up and say "I love you" in a room full of strangers or hold your hand. But George would. It was nice, and although that may seem like a simple answer, it was true. George was nice, and John liked him because of it, simple as that.

"Alright lads, Love Me Do, from the top!" John shouted, and the four ignored their anger and frustrations and immediately began to play.

* * *

They had finished after their session ran an hour and fifteen long. Luckily, Paul had the foresight to cancel their show that afternoon for tomorrow evening instead. 

As John opened the door to his, now their, flat, George stared at the door frame.

"Did you hear how much Paul's voice shook? He sounded like a—" John stopped. George wasn't moving at all. "What're you standing there for?"

"Um… don't you want me to leave?" George hesitantly asked. He nervously reached to play with the tips of his hair, but completely missed them, temporarily forgetting how short it was cut. John stared as he fidgeted with the end of his dark locks before answering.

"I don't? I—" Wait. George kept plucking at his head, and John remembered how he accidentally pushed George to the ground earlier.

"Listen, I don't mind the hand-holding, just… not in public, okay? I didn't mean to knock you to the floor, I just— I'm sorry," he feebly apologized, softening his voice.

George's hands fell from his hair and to his side. He didn't reply to John, instead opting to move to his sleeping bag. It was noon, but he was burying himself like it was time to sleep.

"Come on, Geo, don't be like that." No response. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine, then, be that way.”

He began to flip through a book to pass the time since George wasn’t going to hold conversation. He only got through three pages before he looked up at the motionless bundle George had become a part of.

God, his consciousness wouldn’t let him rest. "I don't want you to leave, alright?"

It was a solid minute before George crawled out at John's last words and spoke. "You mean it?" he quietly asked. 

"Yeah, course," John replied and watched with a slight sense of happiness as George stood back up and sat down in a chair instead of his nest.

Now content that George wasn't so upset, he decided to read a book to pass the time. Hed make lunch in a bit, but right now, it was time to relax.

"I have more books over there, you can read 'em if you want," he offhandedly commented, but George didn't move. 

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"How do you read?"

The book fell from John’s hands.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered in shock. “You can’t read? At all?” George shook his head. “Not even a little?” Again, negative.

John wanted to scream. He wanted to open the window next to his bed, jump out, and try to do a somersault before departing from the world. 

George can’t fucking _read._

Apparently, his face must have morphed into the worst grimace imaginable, because George looked shocked, terrified, and guilty. It reminded John of a little kid about to be punished by his father in all honesty.

 _Christ, it’s not his fault he can’t read, don’t get mad at him for this,_ John told himself.

“I’m gonna make some lunch,” he announced, then, turning to George, he said, “And then I’ll teach you to read.”

George’s expression was full of skepticism, but there was a joyful glint in his eyes. For a second, John lamented why he couldn’t have gotten a normal guitarist who knew how to read and write and play and _function,_ but he quickly dismissed those thoughts. George was here, _now,_ and George needed to learn to read, _now._ It would be cruelly unfair to send him back into a world he has no place in. 

Besides, how hard could it be to teach someone to read? He could already speak the language fine, and he seemed like he’s a fast study. Not to mention he has Lennon, obviously the greatest tutor of all time.

That last point was a joke, but he was still confident he could help George.

But first, lunch.


	8. Window

Despite John’s intentions, he was a shitty teacher. No patience and nowhere near enough empathy. When asked how to read, he explained, “You look at the words and… read them.” 

_Yeah, that’ll really help, mate._

It was not surprising that George didn’t learn a thing. How would one even go about learning to read? It was a large and daunting task set ahead of him, on top of his new role in the band. He wasn’t used to living like this, obeying schedules and rules. All he wanted to do was go outside and be free, not cooped up in his room.

George did not belong in this tiny studio apartment with John.

That night, they had made a compromise. George would stop sleeping in the nude, “like an animal” according to John, and John would leave the window wide open at night. 

“Sorry, mate,” George whispered as he slipped out of his garments. They were uncomfortable and dug into his skin despite being very loose. He simply disliked clothes as well as the stagnant air of the flat.

Creeping up to the window-frame, George slid it open wider as slowly as possible. When John had cracked it open earlier, it squeaked from age and unuse. Although George was methodical and careful, it still creaked.

John’s breath hitched and George’s head darted to stare at him. Still asleep, fortunately. George was just going to run out for some fresh air and be back before John woke. 

He climbed out of the window and descended into the dark streets below.

* * *

It was blinding and cold and John’s head was spinning.

He could only gaze at the sterile walls as the doctor’s voice droned on and on. His head felt like it was about to split as static filled his eyes and ears.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lennon. He’s unresponsive,” the nurse repeated, over and over.

John looked over to see her gesturing towards the other body in the room.

It was George, but decaying. Flies and maggots swarmed the body.

As John bent over to observe George’s diseased, dead face, the body animated and a hand flew forward and grabbed John by the throat.

He woke up in a panic, desperately gasping for air. “Fuck, fuck...” was all he could mutter as he tried to catch his breath. _Fucking nightmares._ His head was abuzz with adrenaline and fear, and nothing was helping him calm down. 

He had to look over and see if George was there, safe, if he wasn’t a bloated dead body being torn apart by bugs. 

John’s eyes darted over and felt his heart stop when he saw George’s makeshift bed upturned. Was he in the bathroom? He probably was, but John had to check to be sure.

He stumbled through the dark flat until he hit the bathroom door and grasped the handle. When he wrenched it open, his blood froze. 

George wasn’t there.

George was missing. 

John’s stomach was lurching and a part of him wanted to throw up. Where the fuck was George? When did he leave? Why— 

A breeze from the outside passed through the open window and John stared out of it.

“...bastard...” he muttered as he drifted towards the outside air.

“You fucking bastard!” he screamed as he slammed it shut. George had rammed himself into John’s life and then ran away, tearing a hole in him. If John was well-rested and in the right state of mind, he wouldn’t have grown so angry. But his blood was pumping and all he could think was that George had left, no, _abandoned him._

He didn’t need George, he didn’t want George. If the lad wanted to prance about in the streets, then he can. Just don’t expect to have the window open when you come back.

With resolve, John closed the latch on the window and prepared for the day.

* * *

Although George had a decent time out, he regretted ever leaving the flat. It was early in the morning, yet John must have been already awake and out, since the flat was empty, and more importantly, inaccessible to George. He tried sliding the window open, but it wouldn’t budge.

_Shit._

They had a show tonight, and George’s suit and guitar were in the flat. If he can’t get in, he can’t play, simple as that.

Letting out a shaky exhale, he climbed up so his legs were positioned in front of the glass pane. He was going to have to break in; there was no other way.

He tried to keep a straight face as his foot broke through. The sound of shattering flooded his ears and the hot pain of the shards cutting his skin overloaded his senses.

He wished John had given him a key.

* * *

“Where is he, John? Seriously,” Paul said, momentarily breaking from his pacing.

“How should I know?” John commented, seemingly disinterested. 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he sleeps with you?!” Paul shrieked, and John stiffened.

“Who told you that?”

“He did, now where is he?”

“He fucking ran away!” John found himself yelling, although he immediately regretted it. Paul’s mouth opened, forming a large circle, unable to respond for a second.

“He _what?!_ ”

“Christ, quiet down!”

“Quiet down?! Our guitarist is gone!”

“Does it matter? We played as a trio before,” John stated, emotionally distant.

“We didn’t get the record deal as a trio! What did you do to him?”

“Why are you assuming it’s my fault?!” John snapped back, anger seeping into his voice.

“Because you always do this! Whenever anyone tries to get close to you, you just shove them away! It happened with me, it happened with Cynthia—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Before Paul could yell some more, the door to the backstage opened, revealing George. Paul was about to greet him when he noticed the dirt on his face, and more disturbingly, the awkward limp he had. On closer inspection, his black trousers were stained red around the left calf. 

“George, are you alright?” Paul asked, already taking George’s guitar out of his hand and leading him towards a seat.

“No, no, I’m fine, Paul...” George panted. “Gotta practice for the show.”

“Are you bleeding?”

George didn’t reply, didn’t want to be guilty of lying, yet also didn’t want to worry Paul.

“Shit, John,” Paul cursed and John walked over to see that yes, George was bleeding. John was about to open his mouth to ask how his leg got cut up, but his mind was realizing that he had his guitar.

George didn’t have a key, the window was sealed, and George’s guitar was in the flat when John left it.

He must have broken the window to get in. John felt anger, guilt, shame, concern, and fear flush over him all at once. He didn’t know how to feel, so he let Paul tend to George. He was probably better at it anyway. Paul was always so kind… unlike himself. Cruel, fat, ugly, mean old Lennon. 

George kept trying to stand up while Paul kept pushing him down.

“You’re daft if you think you can play like this,” Paul stated as fact.

“It doesn’t hurt, Paul. Please, just let me play,” George pleaded, glancing at John. Why did his gaze make John squirm so much?

“Paul, stop fretting and let him play,” he announced, trying to use his past status as leader as leverage. It worked and Paul stepped back.

“Fine, just don’t stand on it while playing. Pull out a stool or something. I’m gonna get Ringo,” he said, going out, hands running through his hair.

“Prissy bitch,” John commented once he was out of earshot. “Thinks he knows what's best for everyone.”

“I think it’s better than someone who doesn’t care at all,” George mumbled under his breath.

“What did you say?” John asked.

“Nothing. Just take me through the set list,” George said, body tense.

 _Why is he in a bad mood all of a sudden? Asshole broke the window that I have to pay for now,_ John mentally fumed. 

Whatever, let’s just get through this show. George can sulk all he wants after. 


	9. Arguement

John prided himself on his musicianship. There was a certain joy from performing near flawlessly, even if he was completely pissed off at George.

But it wasn’t his fault for being angry; George just had to go and break John’s window.

Underneath the pant leg on George’s right calf were numerous gashes that spelled his guilt. John knew that they had to have come from broken glass.

How much do windows cost to replace? They were probably really cheap if stick-thin George could bust through one easy. His flat is definitely on the lower end of pricing, so it couldn’t possibly be that much.

It all really begged the larger question of even bothering with George in the first place. He could play well, but that was all. He couldn’t sing or read or do much of anything else. And John personally did not want to have to babysit the lad for the rest of his life. He might of liked George for the first day or two, but the novelty had already worn off. 

He was so caught in his musings, he failed to notice the next song begun. It didn’t matter much, considering it was late and the crowd was either sleepy, drunk, or both. It was a minuscule mistake in an otherwise perfect night.

The set list flew in a blur, and they were already approaching their last song at the dead of night. When it was finished, they all bowed in unison, and exited the stage. The second John’s body was out of sight from the audience, he made a beeline to the door. 

“John, where are you going?” Paul called after him.

“Home,” he spat out, but Paul caught him by the sleeve of his jacket.

“You’re forgetting George!”

“That’s the fucking point!” John shouted, wrenching his arm free of Paul’s grasp and turning to face him. “If you care so much then you take care of him!”

Paul gave a shocked look towards John, but before he could respond, a voice cut through to them both.

“...for you,” was all John heard come out of George’s mouth. Paul, closer to him, must have heard what he said for his expression had changed. He looked scared, confused, but most of all, concerned.

“What was that?” John demanded.

“I said,” George said, “That the only reason I joined this band was for you.” George stood, shoulders squared, jaw set. His ugly, large eyebrows were pulled down and his fists were clenched.

George was properly pissed at John. It was the first time anyone had seen him openly defiant, no longer a submissive child.

John was going to regret what he said next for the upcoming week, but he was too heated in the moment to back down. A rational man would apologize and let George back home, but John wasn’t rational. He was stupid and stubborn and proud and spat back with venom:

“Oh, you want a fucking gold star, then?”

George didn’t flinch at his words, only narrowed his eyes. 

“Should I feel sorry? I don’t care why you’re in this band.”

“John! Shut up!” Paul hissed, sensing the rising tension in George.

“Oh, I’d gladly let you take him off of my hands,” John said, and before Paul could reply, George spoke.

“No need. I’ll see myself out,” he said and calmly walked out the door past John.

Paul stood there sputtering, and Ringo, who had witnessed their argument but not the reason why, moved to follow.

“Why did you say that?!” Paul demanded of John.

“Why? Because I don’t want to have to watch over him like a child! He’s a burden, that’s what he is. He sneaks out of my flat and breaks in through the window when I’m gone.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I just— am I going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life? I don’t want to be forty and have to make sure he doesn’t steal shit or break in through windows. I don’t want to be responsible for him.”

He saw Paul just gaze at him for a moment. “It’s fine you feel that way, but you shouldn’t have yelled at him like that,” Paul finally said.

“Yeah, I was just pissed off.” Then, “I’m always like this, aren’t I? Such an…  _ arse. _ ”

Paul didn’t respond, which confirmed John’s suspicions. At least he calmed down, though. It’ll be fine, Ringo went out after George, so he’ll probably get him to come back.

Speaking of, the door opened to reveal Ringo, panting and strangely George-less.

“Lost ‘im,” he huffed. “Second I left the building, he was gone. Nowhere on the street.”

Paul moved to leave, to look for George himself when John stopped him. “I’ll go get ‘im, you two can clean up,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the drumset.

John picked up his guitar in one hand and George’s in the other and briskly left the club. Ringo was right, George was nowhere in sight. 

He let out a sigh as he began to walk back home.

* * *

The cheap studio apartment felt lonelier than ever. Maybe it was the fact that it was cold, due to the draft from the broken window. Or maybe it was the fact the George was gone, really gone, and wasn’t going to come back soon.

There was a temporary relief when he realized he didn’t have to cook for George or have to keep an eye on him. He could just sit back and relax…

Yet he wasn’t excited at the prospect in the slightest. He wasn’t angry or sad or happy, just sort of numb to the experience. 

He set the two guitars down and rolled up his sleeves. No way in hell was he going to sleep with this massive draft, so he began to shove the lone bookshelf in the room to cover the window. It would look like shit from the outside, but John could pretend it was fine.

He failed to notice the massive raven staring at him from the outside.


	10. Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight TW, there is blood and injuries in this chapter, after John leaves Paul's flat.

The first day George was gone, life went on as it had before. They played as a trio at the Cavern, something the owner was familiar with, and headed back home to their respective places.

The second day, John caught himself almost buying groceries for two instead of one. When he came back to his flat, John could still feel the draft from the broken window. Looking around, he noted just how cramped and messy the space was. 

It was naive of him to expect George to comfortably live with him.

The pile of clothes that Brian had bought for George lay out next to his sleeping bag and pile of blankets. Brian had gone out of his way to help provide for the lad, and John practically spat in their faces.

He found himself upturning his flat in a fit of rage, mainly at himself, and leaving for Paul’s that night.

The third day, Paul called Brian. No one else was going to, and George didn't show any sign of coming back, so he had to spill the news.

Apparently, waiting three days after the fact was a bad idea. 

"What do you mean George is gone? Where is he?" Brian's voice exploded over the phone.

"We don't know, John's looking for 'im now, right, John?"

"Mmhmm," came John's reply from Paul's couch.

"Just— What happened?" Brian asked over the phone.

"Well, three days ago—" Paul began.

"Three?!" 

"Yeah, three. John was… well  _ John,  _ y'know? Blew up at Geo, and he left."

"Why did you wait three whole days to tell me? You have to go into the studio in two days!"

"What?"

"George Martin already booked a session drummer and everything. You need to find George,  _ now. _ "

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry, we will," Paul said in a panic, glaring daggers at John. "John, get off the couch!" he hastily whispered, covering the receiver with his hand.

“Mmm...” was the reply he got.

“Don’t worry Eppy! We’ll find George tonight, promise,” Paul said and put the phone down. Looking over, he stared at John, who was mindlessly staring at his radio. The voices in the talk show erupted into laughter. John let out a small, “heh,” yet didn’t smile.

It was odd that John had suddenly come over to Paul’s flat last night, and more bizarre how he seemed to not care about anything in the surrounding world. Paul had no idea if he was internally devastated by George’s leaving, or completely apathetic to it all. He was… being John, as usual.

Paul moved towards John and turned his radio off. “We need to find George,” he said, filling the sudden silence. 

“...why?” John finally asked.

“The record deal? The single? The band? Does any of that ring a bell to you? If you don’t apologize to him, you might as well kiss it all goodbye.”

John sighed. It was impossible to tell if it was out of frustration or sadness. “Alright, but don’t expect much. I have no clue where he could have possibly gone.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t even bother looking, did you just expect— ”

“I did,” John interrupted. “I already searched for ‘im.”

“You… did?”

John only nodded in response, but didn’t make eye contact. It was as if there was a heavy weight on his chest, preventing him from breathing.

Paul realized at once why John was so despondent. “You’ve given up,” he said, a statement, not a question. “You don’t think George has a chance of coming back at all...” 

“No one in their right mind would come back to me,” John said. “I… I should’ve quit the band and get a real job a while ago,” he quietly admitted.

It came as a shock to Paul that John wanted out. He swallowed. “Um, how long have you felt this way?” he hesitantly asked.

“Honestly? For a while. Since Stuart stayed back in Hamburg.” John watched as Paul’s eyes widened. “An’ now I just feel like  _ shite,  _ since Ringo, Eppy, an’ Geo got dragged into me mess.”

“If you really feel that guilty...” Paul began, “Then you should find George. Not for the band, but just to apologize. Get it off your conscience.”

As loathe as he was to admit it, Paul’s suggestion was a good one. John knew he had made a terrible mistake, but he couldn’t mope for the rest of his life, as much as he wanted to. He wasn’t getting up for himself, but for Paul, who was staring at him with pity and guilt. And for Ringo, who had gone out looking for George in his free-time as well. As well as Brian, who had placed his hopes on the success of his band. 

He knew George wouldn’t want to see John now, but maybe he could convince him to come back if John himself wasn’t in the band… 

Yeah, that would be best for everyone.

“Hey Paul…?” he shyly asked.

“Yes?”

“Can I, uh, come back here tonight?”

“Sure… good luck out there today,” Paul said. It was the last thing John heard before he left Paul’s spacious flat. The September air was a little colder than usual, but that was probably because the sun hadn’t been out for hours. It was the dead of night.

If John was truly honest, he knew the chance of finding George out on the streets was slim. The excursion out was more for John’s own peace of mind.

He let his feet lead him out, not caring where he was walking. There weren’t too many people out, due to the late hour and cold temperature. Five minutes out turned to twenty, then fifty. It wasn’t until he heard a croak that he looked up. It sounded like a crow or a raven, yet there wasn’t a bird in sight. John scanned his surroundings. He didn’t even know where he had wandered. Nothing looked familiar to him at all.

Before the panic of having to figure out how to get back to Paul could set in, there was a scream.

It reminded John of the night where he first met George. He had helped a raven after it cried out in pain the same night George crawled into his bed, naked. It was a miracle John hadn’t tossed him out of the window then. Why didn’t he? Why did he let George stay with him just to push him away?

His train of thought was interrupted by another scream.

_ Shit,  _ he thought. Someone was actually in trouble and he just stood there. Where was it coming from?

John broke into a sprint and found the source. Two people in an alleyway: a man attacking a woman.

If John had worn his glasses, he would have noticed that the man held a knife. Maybe he would have kept his distance and stayed safe, but instead he charged right at the man and tackled him with his shoulder. John could see the woman quickly get away with the opening caused by John’s surprise attack. He almost smiled to himself, glad that he could do something right…

And then the knife flew straight into him.

It felt like a punch, and John doubled over. His stomach felt like warm water was running down it, and when he looked, he was red.

He had been stabbed.

Adrenaline was pumping through his system as the knife was pulled out. The man tried to stab John again, but he was able to block the blade with his forearms. They got slashed in the process, but the man was vehemently set on slicing John to ribbons. 

The knife dug into John’s arm again and the man blindsided him by kicking him in his bleeding stomach, knocking him down.

He was down on the ground, completely defenseless for his assailant to slice his neck open. 

John was going to die.

Time seemed to slow down as the ensuing reality set it. Everything John had ever done in his life had amounted to him getting stabbed to death in an alley. 

Oh god, he was really going to die, wasn’t he?

Paul would be sad, Cynthia too. They’d mourn him for a bit, but they would move on soon enough. Most people would. But Mimi… oh, she’d be devastated.

It’s over… 

It’s… 

…over… 

John waited for the lethal blow, but it never came, for there was a horrible, ear-wrenching shriek. John, even with his eyesight blurring, could see the man stepping back.

A massive raven had appeared out of nowhere and was tearing at his face. John could hear the raven screaming, and could see its sharp beak thrust straight into the man’s eyes. Was this the same raven he had saved back then, come to repay his debt?

John saw blood, but he could also see the edges of his vision darkening. Even if this raven had come to save him, it wouldn’t mean anything. It couldn’t call the police or take him to a hospital. The man was running away, most likely blinded, but it meant nothing to John.

He was still going to die, left to bleed out slowly outside.

The last thing he saw before blacking out was the raven approaching him, its silhouette growing larger. Its wings folded up and it seemed to rise up above John.

He could have sworn it called out his name before John finally passed out.


	11. Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sad part is now over

Last night, when John had left, Paul didn’t follow. He had stayed at his flat, perfect content with staying in and being warm.

An hour had passed before fear began to creep into Paul’s head. It was rather late out, and there was no sign of John.

Then again, he had known John for years. His best friend could handle himself fine. In fact, he would probably laugh at Paul for being such a worrywart. 

Another hour had passed and Paul found anxiety gnawing into him again. It was terribly cold and late, yet John hadn’t come back yet. Paul started regretting his choice to let John go alone. He could’ve kept him company and maybe help convince George to come back if they ever found him.

Staying put was not the wisest course of action for Paul to take. Yet, it was too late to go out now. George could be anywhere, which meant John could be anywhere looking for him. 

As Paul thought more about it all, the phone rang. He wondered why someone would call this late.

“Is this Paul McCartney?” the voice asked. He was initially disappointed it wasn’t John, but he remained polite.

“Yes it is, may I help you?”

The next words that came over the phone caused Paul to drop it in shock. He ran out the door, hastily forcing a coat and shoes on.

His destination was the local hospital.

The drive there was a complete blur. Paul was positive he must be broken a few traffic laws, but it didn't matter. 

Very few things do when your best friend was in the hospital for a stabbing.

Paul had burst in through the front doors and demanded to see John, but the receptionist told him he was currently in surgery and that only relatives would be allowed to see Mr. Lennon.

Paul quickly claimed he was first cousins with John. The receptionist pointed him towards the waiting room. He walked over and pickied up a magazine. He then shoved his face into it, trying not to let anyone dare see the emotion on his face.

Surgery… the thought alone made Paul’s world spin. It made him sick just to think of the possibility that John, that John would…

He buried his head further into the leaflet and drew still.

* * *

It took five solid minutes for John to work up the energy to open his eyes. Five more passed before he finally looked around the room.

The hospital room John was kept in was clean, yet small. But instead of feeling claustrophobic, it was cozy. Maybe it was the cream-colored wallpaper and the potted plants in the corner.

Regardless, it made the fact that John woke up after being stabbed a little better.

The events that occured before waking in this room were a blur to John. He remembers leaving Paul’s lovely flat, going for a walk to god-knows-where, getting in a fight with some man in an alley, and then his life getting saved by a raven…

He’s certain that last memory was incorrect. It was probably the blood loss or something that was muddling his brain.

Blood loss, he did lose a lot didn’t he? There were bandages all over his forearms, as well as a particularly bulky one around his abdomen. It was really itchy too.

John was too tired to scratch it, so he opted to visually explore the space he was in.

There was a bouquet of flowers next to him on the bed stand. Next to it, a card that John could already read the words on: “Feel better soon. Love, Paul.” 

“That was left for you by your cousin.”

John looked to the other side of the room to see a nurse staring at him and felt embarrassed that it took him that long to realize she was there.

“You better be thankful that young man found you, you know,” she said. “You’d be dead if you were brought in any later.”

“Dead?” John croaked. “What’re you on about?”

“You got stabbed in an alleyway, dear. You were bleeding like a pig when you came in,” she said.

“Really? Doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Well, I would hope not! You just had surgery: if you were hurting now, then the doctor did his job wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re loaded up on painkillers.”

“...Makes sense… You mentioned a surgery, though?” John asked. He couldn’t think of any witty remarks or comebacks. Everything just felt like static. 

The nurse prattled on, seemingly unaware of how John was slowly slipping away. He heard many words, penetration wound, liver puncture, blood loss, shock. Damn, he really would have died if he wasn’t brought in.

“Wait, you said someone found me and took me here?”

“Yes, a shy but polite young man. Has your same haircut, in fact!” she said, smiling. 

“The same haircut? What— what did he look like?” he asked, before realizing just how silly his question was. There was no way the George actually— 

“Well, he was rather gaunt-looking. Why, do you know him?”

“Was his name George Harrison?”

“I believe he mentioned his name was George,” the nurse said and John’s stomach (or what was left of it) lurched.

The chances of George actually being the one to save his life were so low, yet it happened. That skinny little kid actually saved him.

He was reeling from the revelation. That means George must’ve called Paul as well.

At the very least, it meant that George wouldn’t leave John for dead in an alley. Maybe… maybe he forgave john on some level.

“Hey, miss?” he suddenly asked.

“Yes, dear?” She was very sweet to John, despite knowing him for a few minutes.

“Can you leave the window open for me? It, um, helps me relax.”

“Of course,” she said as she crossed the room to open it all the way. The sound of cars driving in the street filled the room, as well as the golden tones of sunset. John must’ve been out for a while if the sun was already going down.

John actually did find himself relax with the fresh air blowing in. He could understand why George liked it so much. 

The nurse left him to make her rounds, allowing John to slip into slumber.

When he woke up again, it was early in the morning. The sun was about to rise over the horizon, and the room had grown cold overnight.

Standing at the foot of John’s bed was a dark and twisted shadow. When John’s eyes finally focused he could see that it was, in fact, George.

“Christ, you scared me,” John said.

“...I’m sorry,” George replied.

John hummed, then grew silent. He didn’t know what to do with George staring him down so intensely.

Then, he finally spoke. “I don’t understand you at all,” George said.

“Heh, me neither. I heard you were the one who brought me in,” John said. Then, “Thanks for that.”

George’s expression didn’t change and was still unreadable. “It’s what any decent person would have done,” he said.

“I’m sorry, by the way, for yelling at you last time. I was an arse.”

“You’re not a… jerk,” George slowly replied. “You saved that woman’s life. You hurt me feelings, but… you helped someone you barely knew.”

“Oh, um, thanks. Y’know, I thought a raven saved me life last night, but it was you, wasn’t it?”

George’s face finally changed expression, this time to one of… shock? It was a minute shift, but John caught it.

“I thought I saw a bird attacking that man, but there wasn’t any bird at all,” John continued. “It must have been you. Imagined the bird in me head.”

“I— I— ” George faltered. “Yeah, I guess it was me, but that doesn’t matter. You’re alive, and that’s what counts.”

“I guessed if you saved me life, then you’re not mad at me anymore?”

At this, George finally broke into a smile and chuckled. “Maybe a little, but I  _ was  _ the one who smashed your window.”

“Christ, it’s a fuckin’ piece of glass! Who cares about it?”

“I guess it is a little silly to fight over a window after you got stabbed,” George admitted.

“What’s next? Heaven forbid, you ate my biscuits, get out of my sight!” John jokingly yelled at George, playing out a fake argument. They both broke into laughter at the thought. John was more than overjoyed that George wasn’t cross with him at all.

“Let’s just— start over, alright?” John finally asked after calming down. “I’d really like it if you joined the band.”

“That’s good, because I’d like to be in it again,” George said with a gentle grin. “I was worried that you wouldn’t want me back,” he sheepishly admitted.

“ _ I  _ was worried you didn’t want to be back!” John laughed, but quickly quieted himself. He could hear footsteps in the hallway.

“Shit, I think someone’s coming,” he said, and George was already moving towards the window.

“Then that’s my cue to leave,” George said. “It’s probably illegal to sneak into the hospital like this after all.”

“George Harrison doesn't fear the law," John commented. "When will I get to see you again?”

“When you get discharged,” George replied. “So you better fix that hole in your liver fast!”

“Like I have any control over that,” John sarcastically remarked as George disappeared outside. "I better see you later."

"Don't worry, you will. More than you'll want to," George said, muttering the last part. He then slipped out of view.

John laid down and stared out the open window.

He couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face if he tried.


	12. Flowers

George left right before the sun rose, leaving John in a room now well-lit with sunlight.

An hour later, Paul came in as soon as visiting hours started. 

"Hey there," Paul started, strolling into the room. "How're you feeling?"

"Well, considering I was bleeding out yesterday— "

"Two days ago," Paul corrected.

"Shit, you're right. Eppy's gonna be pissed," he mumbled.

"Yeah, if he lost hair over George vanishing, he had an aneurism when he heard about the stabbing," Paul said. 

"Tell him I said sorry."

"You can tell him that yourself!" Paul replied.

John quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, he's coming to visit?"

"Mmhmm, although I don't know when or what the deal with the record studio is."

"George's back," John found himself blurting out.

"He's what? How? When?"

"This morning."

"John!"

"What?!"

"You should've told me that," Paul said, smiling.

"I just did!"

"You bastard," he said chuckling. "You serious? Or are you just pulling me leg?"

"'M serious, he snuck in through the window. Missed 'm by an hour."

Paul exhaled and walked over to the window, staring out it. "That's great news, mate." He found it exceedingly easy to believe, surprisingly enough. "And he agreed to join the band again?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Well, it explains why you have that silly grin. You're far too happy for a stabbing victim."

John hadn't realized the corners of his lips were upturned. He shifted, trying to keep his face straight. "Was I really smiling that much?" he asked. 

"Mmhmm," he grunted. "You like George, don't you?"

The spit in John's mouth flew back and he began to choke. As he tried to hold back his coughing, Paul broke into a loud laugh.

And then let out a sigh, closing his eyes.

"I was just teasing, you git."

John ceased his gagging and looked at Paul. Even though he was jokingly teasing John, he suddenly seemed so distant.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, it's nothing."

"Paul..."

"It's just— it seems like he's on your mind a lot. And I guess I'm just getting a little jealous."

"I told him to piss off," John countered.

"Yeah, I know, I'm just being silly," he said. "But I'm glad he's back, y'know? You were really out of it after your fight."

John hummed and looked out the open window. Perhaps Paul was right. He did feel some strange kind of affection for George.

_ So you better fix that hole in your liver fast! _

George's last words echoed in John's head. He found himself wanting to heal faster to see him again.

He looked over to Paul to see him straightening the bouquet on the bed side table.

"Thanks for the flowers," John said when he realized he never thanked Paul for them.

"It's the least I could do," he replied. "Do you know when you're getting out?"

"In a few days. The doctors say that there's nothing wrong with me liver, but they want to keep an eye over me. Just in case."

"Well that's good to hear. They said you were near death when you came in— it's a bit hard to believe you're already patched up."

"It's a bit crazy, isn't it? You know, the doctor told me that a human could regrow their liver from just 25%."

"Really? Then a knife slash should heal in no time at all."

"Mmhmm… say Paul?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming. I, uh… really appreciate it," John said, embarrassed. He was was worried about coming across as too soft, but Paul didn't mind.

"Of course. I really care about you, y'know."

John knew he could always count on Paul.

* * *

He was released a few days later, but he was far from recovered. Trying to stand made him nauseous and he needed help at first. Without the constant attention from the medical staff to attend to his needs, his limitations became apparent. His stomach hurt, he felt tired and sick, and everything just seemed somewhat hazy.

The doctor had also given him a list of warnings and instructions.

No exercising or heavy lifting. That's fine, John was too lazy to work anyway.

No alcohol, no sex, which basically translated to no having fun.

Take the prescribed medicine; follow all the instructions.

Get plenty of rest, don't drive or work.

And make sure you follow up at the doctor!

It all seemed simple enough, but John knew it was going to be difficult. Getting up from bed and actually walking made his innards ache. He was sore and tired and life generally sucked.

And as the reality of his injuries set in, he found that he didn't regret his choice to attack that man. He had done a good thing, and, more importantly, didn't regret it. It felt… nice to do something decent.

As he stumbled out of the hospital, walking was still difficult. He made it about halfway down the block before deciding,  _ fuck it,  _ and doubled back to the hospital to call Paul to drive him home.

Yes, it was lazy of him, but he was too tired to care. Paul chauffeured him home, offering to let John stay at his flat the entire ride. As tempting as the offer was, John politely declined.

Well, as politely as he could, anyway. He wasn't really made of gentleman material.

He liked Paul, but he didn't want to become dependent on his mate. Besides, he had to clean up his flat for George.

The stairs up to his apartment felt three times longer than usual, and he was panting by the time he got to the third floor. 

There was something very odd when he got to his flat. Light flowed out of the crack under his door, and when he clasped the door handle, it was unlocked.

John tried to crack it open to peek inside, but the hinges squeaked loudly.

"Cheap-ass doors," he muttered.

But before he could complain more, he saw the state his flat was in.

And how lovely it was.

The entire place was cleaned up, making the room bigger. Although his bedroom, living room, and kitchen were all the same space, it genuinely looked nice. There was a rug in his flat, something he knew he didn't own before.

The most surprising thing was the window, completely replaced. And before John could even ponder how it was fixed, he saw George.

George was asleep in his nest of blankets, gently snoring. He looked incredibly peaceful.

"Thanks," John whispered, even though he knew George couldn't hear it. 

Exhaustion was setting in, so John turned off the lights, cracked the new window open, clambered to his bed, and joined George in sleep.

He then fell into a deep dreamless slumber.


	13. Concern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although 13 is an unlucky number, hopefully this chapter doesnt bring any misfortune to you

When John woke up, he saw a pair of eyes staring at him from the floor.

"Morning, Geo," he yawned.

"...Hey there," George said tentatively. "Are you alright?"

"Stomach hurts, but other than that, yeah, I'm good," John said. George's eyes were still looking at him, blankets tucked right over his nose. He looked like a burrito or a cocoon all bundled up. It was honestly cute.

Then John remembered he wasn't the only one who was injured. "Your leg alright?" he asked. It was bleeding quite a bit the night he left.

"It's healed now," George said. "I'm more worried about you."

"You gonna be me nurse now?"

"I'm not a nurse, but… I'll be there for you. I promise."

John was taken aback by how genuine George sounded. Before he could begin to blush, John made use of his offer.

"Can you put in some tea for me, then?" he asked. George didn't move at all.

Oh. George didn't know how to make tea. He couldn't read or do much of anything, so why would John expect he knew how to do this?

"Come on, I'll show you how," John said as he clambered out of bed. And then he grunted, because his stomach was still painfully sore.

As he rooted around for the kettle, he heard George get up and turned around…

And found himself staring at George's naked arse and cock.

He tried not to cringe as he turned back around. He had forgotten that George didn't like wearing clothes at all.

It was foolish of John to assume living with George would have been easy. Whatever. As long as he doesn't go outside in the nude, then it doesn't matter what he wears indoors.

* * *

Over the course of the week, George had really stepped up. He may not have known how to cook, but he was a fast learner. John just had to show him how to prepare a meal once, and George could recreate it fairly well.

The more impressive fact was that George played with Paul and Ringo at the Cavern while John was out, taking his guitar parts and occasionally his vocals. 

On a side note, he found out later that George was so nervous the first time singing lead that he faced Ringo the whole time. Apparently, Ringo couldn't stop himself from chuckling at George during the entire song.

It all made John ponder the possibility of George singing on the album. Once he got over his stage fright, George seemed to enjoy singing. Besides, they were a group, and what better way to show how the four of them were equals than by having them all be the lead?

Despite his newfound confidence with his voice, there was something a little off with him when he came home. It was as if a tiredness had soaked into his bones, making him weary. John thought it was the late night gigs that were making George so exhausted, but the bags under his eyes only continued to darken. As John recovered more, George seemed to be taking ill.

There was a rather large hint that George was not well, and John regretted that he didn't heed it. One night, John had heard the door open.

"Hey Geo, how was the show?" he called out, focused on making himself a small bowl of soup. Instead of a response, John heard a thud. He saw in shock how George had collapsed to the floor, missing his bed by a solid meter.

He was completely unconscious and sweat plastered his bangs to his forehead. John struggled to keep calm as he darted over and checked George's forehead. He didn't have a fever, yet something was clearly wrong. In his fretting, he forgot his dinner was boiling over.

John gently slapped George's cheeks, trying to stir him awake. Yet when George woke up, he still seemed to be asleep, like he was sleepwalking.

He let out a guttural croak, not dignifying John with a proper answer, and crawled towards his nest of blankets. 

John could only stare as he passed out again, this time seemingly for good. But before the implications of George's acute exhaustion could set in, John heard a sizzling. 

He jumped with a start to his abandoned soup, quickly turning down the flame. John was going to tell George that night that he felt good enough to go back into the studio, but he felt concerned.

Anyone would after witnessing your friend crash like that.

As John sipped his scalding hot dinner, George began to whimper in his sleep. It started with a hitch of the breath, then little gasps for air. At first, John didn't react, assuming it was some bizarre snoring.

Then George called out. "W-where are you?" he said, sounding like a scared child. His voice was so small, John felt as though he could crush with with his bare hands. George then mumbled something incoherent, but he could have sworn one of the words uttered was "Mother." It made John's insides squirm.

His soup was suddenly unappetizing and he threw the rest out.

* * *

The next morning, George woke up far later than usual. Unlike John, he was an early bird, always rising with the sun. So when John woke up before George, and not due to a nightmare, he couldn't help but fret.

It was almost midday, yet George was sound asleep, still as a statue. Almost too still.

If John was rational, we would have let George rest, yet his increasing fear made him nudge George awake.

"Oi, you alive?" John asked, masking his paranoia with indifference. George took a few moments before his eyes opened.

"...Tired," he mumbled. 

"I'd let you sit on your arse all day, but you reek," John said, silently implying George should bathe. He took the clue and clumsily stood up, far too slowly for John's liking.

John had considered himself extremely fortunate that there was nothing to do today. No show for George, which meant the ailing lad could rest up. Of course, John still had to phone Paul and Brian to tell them that he felt recovered enough to play again, even if the doctor did recommend he should rest for longer. George was a wildcard in the grand scheme of things, but if he took today easy, then he should be good to go tomorrow.

And so, in a rare moment of charity, John let the freshly-showered George have his bed. George took it, soaking the mattress with his poorly-dried body, and proceeded to curl up into a fetal position.

George had only said one word that entire day, and John couldn't stop himself from wanting to watch over him. As he drew closer, he saw that George was absently gazing out of the window. It was a dreary overcast day, and the weather reflected his mood. 

"It's gonna rain soon," George said. "The animals are hiding away." Despite his observations, his voice was still weak. He was on the verge of passing out again. 

John merely grunted in response. He was getting too wrapped up in George, the man consuming his thoughts. When did he grow to be so… paternal? George was sick, but everyone falls ill. Paul had a nasty cold two months ago, yet John didn't feel the urge to check up on him every second. 

His mind convinced itself that he had allowed himself to become too soft, too caring. This wasn't who he was at all. He was growing paranoid, and so decided to go for a walk to clear his head, ignoring George's warnings of the oncoming downpour.

It'd be fine. That nagging voice in the back of his head can shut it.

However, George was right. It began to drizzle five minutes into his walk, and he was thoroughly soaked after ten.

He then decided to visit Paul that afternoon instead of heading home.

George would be fine on his own.


	14. Guitar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning, a character throws up this chapter

Paul was ecstatic to hear that John felt well enough to play again. It wasn't the most bizarre thing in the world for John to come over, and the fact that he finally crawled out of his flat for once said a lot.

John came to share the news and to clear his head. And so he did, picking up a guitar and beginning to play, passing the time songwriting. His rain-soaked clothes and ailing roommate became forgotten in a torrent of notes and chords. If Paul was concerned about George, he didn't show it. Instead, he opted to join John, working on the tune. It was a simple little earworm, but effective.

John felt better at the end of the session, and you could almost say he was happy. But the second he headed back home, it all came crashing down, like the poor weather that was drenching him. He could play, no problem, but could George? That was the question that burned on his mind, and it was on Paul and Ringo's as well. Everyone knew George was unwell, yet he was vehemently set on working no matter what.

When John got to his place, he scanned the room to see that George hadn't moved at all since he left. 

John sighed at looked at George's abandoned nest next to the bed. Looks like he was going to sleep on the floor tonight.

* * *

"Stop!" George Martin's voice boomed. John saw how Paul cringed at the volume and turned towards the producer. The older man was fuming in his booth and it was apparent why.

George has completely zoned out and missed the opening of the song, ruining yet another take. It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't going to be the last.

Despite sleeping almost non-stop for the past day, he acted as though he was running on no sleep at all. His performance suffered terribly, that is, if he remembered to play at all. It was a bit startling, considering how impeccable George's playing is usually.

For John's grand comeback, very little was made in the form of progress.

"Lay off Geo, he exhausted," Paul said back towards Martin.

Yet he didn't heed Paul. "John has a hole in his liver and he's still playing. No excuses, now..." He looked over to see that George had fallen asleep in a chair. "Wake him up!" he hissed, rubbing his temples with his fingers in frustration.

"Yes sir, Mr. Martin, sir!" John mock saluted as he nudged his companion.

George's eyes opened, but his mouth turned into a grimace. Before John could ask why, his body convulsed. Then, he gave two shuddering gasps and a wet, visceral burp.

George's gaze was filled with distress and fear. John had no clue what was happening until Paul shouted at him, "The bin! Get the bin!"

 _Oh shit,_ John realized. George was about to vomit all over himself. He grabbed the nearby trash can and shoved it into George's arms, who proceeded to curl up around it, letting out another terrible sound.

And then he emptied his stomach's contents into the bin. John knew that George hadn't eaten anything yesterday or that morning. So when John glimpsed at George, he saw a dark green, viscous liquid dribble out. George was spewing the only thing inside left inside his stomach, bile.

John could only imagine how his sinuses and throat burned right now. Everyone's anxiety-filled eyes were on the two of them, waiting to see what happened next. Martin looked concerned for George for the first time as well.

John accidentally caught a whiff of the contents of the can and tried not to gag. "Smells tasty," he said, trying to diffuse tension with a shitty joke. Taking the bin with one hand and hoisting up George with the other, they slowly made their way to the restroom. 

George practically collapsed down to the toilet as soon as they came in. John rinsed the bin out in the sink, listening to retching and dry-heaving all the while. He cringed at the noises and tried to block them out with the rushing of water from the sink. But then he heard choking and sobbing and shut the water off.

"Geo? You alright?" he asked.

When there was no response, John approached the stall. George was leaning heavily against the toilet, body sagging. As John drew closer, he saw how George's face had tears at the corner of its eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he numbly said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"No, shut up, it's not your fault."

George just whimpered in response, turning back towards the bowl. His face looked so much more haggard and gaunt. 

"I'll take you home, okay?" John said, and to his surprise, George shook his head. 

"I'm fine, I can stay, I just need a minute." After a moment, George then rose, stumbling slightly, and leaning on the walls as he exited the room. John could only follow, ready to catch George should he fall. 

When they got back, Paul and Ringo were already packing up to go.

"Where are you two going?" George asked in a small voice.

"Home, mate. You're sick," Ringo said with a cigarette in between his lips.

"I'm fine enough to play— "

"No, you're not," George Martin said from across the room. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You need to take a break. A _proper_ rest," he emphasized.

 _He's been fucking resting all day,_ John muttered to himself. 

"Oi!" John shouted. "Let's just take a lunch break, alright? If Geo says he's good to play, then let's play."

"Is he though?" Paul asked. "George, can you play?"

"Yes."

"He can't," Martin growled.

"I _can,_ " George said back. The two Georges stared each other down before Martin acquiesced.

"Fine," he said after a moment, genuinely surprising the band.

They left to get something to eat, George staying behind, curled up in a chair. When they got back, he was still in the chair, intently staring at his hands.

"George, you alright?"

George's head snapped up. "Huh? Y-Yeah, let's do this."

And to the surprise of everyone, his playing was tight. He was strumming his guitar furiously, brow drenched in sweat from concentration. Their producer finally seemed satisfied with their performance, and George wasn't throwing up or passing out anymore.

John watched in amazement but had this growing dread. It was as if George had gone into overdrive, pushing himself to perfect these takes. It made him concerned that after this burst of energy had worn off, there would be little left.

Their next take was stopped after only a few seconds, however. The guitar part was completely off-beat, but it wasn't due to George.

It was John who had missed the strings of his instrument. He was doing fine until he snuck a peek at George's hands in the midst of the song.

They were grey and black, with dagger-like nails adorning them. They looked like demon claws that could slice you into ribbons.

John had doubled back in shock and failed to pick up playing on the beat. He glanced back to see George's mangled talons, only to find fleshy human hands instead.

"I— Sorry," John feebly apologized. Whatever he saw scared him, but it must have been a trick of the light. George was staring at John with fearful eyes before the producer called them to do another take.

Despite the numerous setbacks, they managed to record their tracks. Paul, ever so helpful, offered to chauffeur John and George home, painfully aware of how bad the two were. John was still recovering, and George had quickly crashed as soon as the takes were done.

He swayed and wobbled, until Ringo caught him, seconds from collapsing to the floor. In the car, he had genuinely passed out.

"Paul, you're a life-saver," John said they arrived at their destination. 

He then turned to the back seat. "Geo, wake up!" His eyes fluttered open, and the pair of them filed out of the vehicle.

"Call me when George is feeling better, alright?" Paul asked.

"Yes mother," John cooed. Paul gave him a look and drove off, leaving the two of them alone.

And as they climbed up the stairs to John's pathetically small flat, George began to lag behind. John had to wait at the top for him to catch up, even though he was the one who had to carry their unwieldy guitars.

The first thing George did upon entering was shut the window and lay on the floor.

"Mate, what're you doing?"

"I want the window close," George said, lightly panting. The climb to the third floor wasn't that great, so his being out of breath was a testament to how weak he was. John was about to offer his bed to George again when he started to shed his clothes and crawl into his nest, curling into a fetal position.

And just like that, he was asleep. He had managed to get the takes done, but at a brutal cost to his stamina. It was unnatural how tired he was, and John felt a terrible anxiety. 

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd take the lad to a doctor. But for now, he needed to take a break. John's innards were aching again, and a part of his mind nagged at him for trying to work again. He knew he should be resting but he didn't have the patience to.

It's fine. He'd be able to take it easy since George was ill and couldn't go out. The album will probably get done in five years at this rate, but John didn't care.

Like George, he too crashed.


	15. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happens.

John wished he had a good night's rest. It's what he needs for his damn conscience to stop thinking about George every second of his life. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his mind kept flashing to the worst possible outcomes.

What if George had to be hospitalized? What if he woke up that morning to find George had died in his sleep? 

But what if John was just overreacting and nothing was wrong? What if this skinny weirdo had shoved his way into John's life and had taken it over? What if there was a _way_ for his _damn head_ to _shut up_ and let him rest in peace?!

John groaned, turning over and shoving a pillow over his head. The rain started again in the dead of night, and every noise in his flat decided it was the perfect time to be as loud and obnoxious as possible. Outside, the city was just a grey blur from how heavy the downpour was.

There was a crash of thunder, and John pressed the pillow down harder to cover his ears. God, how he wished sleep would take him now. It had to have been past midnight at this point, yet his body wouldn't turn off.

 _To hell with it,_ John thought, getting out of bed. He couldn't sleep anymore, and so decided to make a sandwich for himself. Letting the lightning illuminate the flat, he put a slice of cheese in between two slices of bread. It was only the most exquisite of cuisines.

Here he was, eating a cheese sandwich in his underwear in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm while a naked man sleeps three meters in front of him. He wanted to laugh at how ridiculous his situation had become. 

The sandwich was good enough considering how basic it was, but John's taste buds haven't really matured much from when he was a kid. His chewing of the meal could barely be heard over the assault of the rain on the walls and window.

_Hhhhnnh…_

The thunder crashed yet again, and over it, John heard a groan. It was George, who had suddenly kicked the covers off of him. His legs were moving as though he was running. He must have been dreaming about chasing after something, but then he whimpered again. 

John realized his dream must have been a nightmare not about chasing after something, but about being chased himself. His legs kept spasming, alongside his arms now. Of course, George didn't move anywhere, laying parallel to the floor. John had seen the same behavior in animals, particularly dogs. 

He finished his sandwich as he stared at George in curiosity. Suddenly, the sky lit up from the storm and George visibly flinched. From the rise and fall of his chest, you could tell his heart was slamming against his ribcage. Even though sleep was the one time the body should be relaxed, the poor lad looked like he was ready to fight for his life. 

Eventually, George calmed, long after the flavorless sandwich had been consumed. His kicking had ceased, and his breathing stopped accelerating. John didn't know what to think, so he didn't. He rose, drifted back to his bed, and closed his eyes.

Another flash of lighting streaked across the sky and George gasped.

There was a roar of thunder and John heard George shudder.

Then, both, and screaming filled the room.

George got up with a start and rammed himself into the window. He was screaming uncontrollably as he clawed at the glass, trying to break out. John could hear the sound of his nails scraping across the pane. 

"George!" he shouted as he jumped up and grabbed him from behind. He assumed George had to be sleepwalking, acting out some bizarre nightmare. His screeches kept assaulting John's ears, as if thousands of tiny shards of glass were piercing them. With a grunt, John pulled George off of the wall only for him to retaliate by thrashing more. His right hand flew backwards and slashed John across the cheek. 

John let go and reached up to touch his stinging face. He felt warm blood trickling out, as well as five fine horizontal lines across its surface. George had managed to get every one of his dagger-like nails to scar his cheek in his blind thrashing.

The howling and screaming continued as George kept attacking the window, ripping it apart more than opening it. 

John grabbed him from behind again, this time clutching his forearms so George couldn't blindside him with his claws. Then, he used all his might to throw him to the floor. There wasn't a single rational thought going through George's head, just some primal urge to get out of the damn room. 

"Stop, you fucker!" John growled as he pressed his entire body weight onto George, pinning him to the ground. He was still struggling, but he was emancipated from his illness. John simply overpowered him, even though George put up a very tough fight. 

After a solid minute of writhing on the floor, George stopped. It was like a switch had gone off, locking up his lungs. In a panic, John flew off of George, calling his name. He had forgotten his rage and their struggle in an instant.

George had stopped breathing and his whole body went cold. All the blood in John stopped and his head went numb.

George… was dying.

"Oh, God— Geo— George!" he screamed, trying to wake up his friend. _Please, no, anything but this,_ John mentally begged. _Please don't let him die!_

But George's body remained stiff and motionless. John clutched his hand, desperately trying to hear the sound of his breathing over the torrent outside. He could feel tears start to form.

Then, he feels it. George's hand grips back, incredibly weak. Feathers have fallen on John harder than George's grasp. There's a strange sensation in the point of contact, as if George's blood was electrified and flowing. John reaches up a hand to wipe away the tears that pricked at the corner of his eyes and starts laughing. He's alive! But before he can truly celebrate, the unthinkable happened. 

John swears he was awake at that point. His face stung and his body was sore; he could feel the sensations of being awake. Yet, what he saw made him question reality. It would make more sense for it all to have been a dream.

It began with George's hands. They turned from soft, pink, and fleshy to hard and grey. His skin felt rough and coarse, and his nails elongated and curled. And then his entire body darkened, the skin losing its pallor and getting coated in long, black streaks. He saw how his hair lengthened and thickened, crawling across his skin. 

Bones were cracking as George's form seemingly melted away, disappearing underneath more of the dark plumage. He was dissolving under John's touch, arms and legs thinning. 

Before long there was nothing that resembled a human. Anything that was recognizably George was erased, replaced with a small creature. It was no larger than an infant, completely black. 

John's mind was running at the speed of light, leaving the rest of his body alone. The only thing his conscious mind was capable of was repeating a singular sentence to himself.

It made no sense at all, but it was the only conclusion he could think of.

George was a raven.


	16. Animal

George was a raven.

George was a raven.

George was a fucking raven.

For a solid quarter of an hour, John had sat there, dazed, like time had slowed down. Reality felt like a blur, with adrenaline and anxiety worming their way through John’s veins. It was as if he was suspended in water, for every sensation felt dulled. 

Then, in an instant, he came crashing down with a punctual crack of thunder. There were much more important things to be doing than sitting there. John just needs to think.

George was here, George was sick, George tried to get out of the window, John had to pull him back, George stopped breathing…

...and then George turned into a bird.

There were four possible explanations for what had happened.The first, and John’s personal favorite, was that he was dreaming. The second was that George had somehow contracted an illness that turned him into a raven. The third was George had always been a raven and had turned back. The fourth and final explanation was that John was dead, and that all he saw was some form of hellish purgatory. John wondered if his real body had bled out in that alleyway, but quickly dismissed the thought. His own demise made his skin crawl; John did not want to accept that possibility. 

Realistically speaking, only the first option could have made sense. Maybe his knife wound got infected and it was all a fever dream. John would have loved to just lay back down in bed and sleep his troubles away. Yet the hot sting of the cuts on his face and the ache in his muscles told him that wasn’t the case. He was here, right now, in his minuscule flat with a raven.

Which means George either got cursed and turned into a bird, which sounds like it came out of a fairy-tale, or he is some strange raven-human hybrid. 

John shoved his head in between his legs. This couldn’t be happening. People don’t turn into birds; that’s not how it works. He must have snapped, finally losing his sanity. There was no other way, there was no other way… 

A strangled gasp of air came from across the room and John’s head snapped up. He scrambled over to the source to see the raven sprawled out. John had come to a decision. As much as he would like to say that the sight before him wasn’t real, there was a chance that it  _ was. _ It meant that John couldn’t leave the wounded creature to die from neglect in the event that he was, in fact, not dreaming.

As he sorted his priorities straight, the rain started to die down, making it easier to concentrate. First, he leaned over, resting his ear on the bird’s chest as gently as possible. Luckily, he heard the faint traces of a heart beat, as well as breathing. The raven was alive, which meant George was alive.

It was hard for him to make the connection. George is a weird, scraggly guy with arms and teeth and ears. This raven is a jet-black bird with wings and a beak and feathers. The mental images of the two just didn’t line up. How could George be a bird?

John pondered it as he ran his hand across the surface of the raven’s plumage. It was silky and soft, but some of the tips felt different, like they were trimmed. Most of the cut feathers were at the top of his head, like some kind of amateur haircut.

Or like a clean human haircut that was put onto a bird.

A groan escaped from John’s throat. This was really happening. Looking outside, he noticed the sun hasn’t risen yet. The Liverpool cityscape was barely visible over the dark night sky. He couldn’t take George to a doctor right now— wait, no, he couldn’t take George to a  _ vet.  _ Because he’s a bird. And not a human.

God, he could already feel a headache coming on.

At the very least, he could try to make the raven more comfortable. John took one of George’s blankets (which were technically  _ his _ ) and wrapped it into a donut-shape. It formed a makeshift nest for George to rest on, infinitely more comfortable than the hard, wooden floor.

Everything was just confusing, so John made way to the phone. He felt the urge to call someone, and his fingers reached for the dial. It was hard to put in the numbers, his grip slick with sweat. In his panic, he subconsciously dialed the number of his best friend. He put the receiver to his ear, waiting for a response.

_ Ring… _

_ Ring… _

The phone slammed down with too much force as John put it down. Was he an idiot? Calling Paul now would be a mistake. There was no chance he was awake, and if he was, telling him your band-mate just turned into a bird would cause more problems than it would solve.

No one would believe him. After all, he barely believed it himself. 

Looking closer at the raven’s prone form, John realized just how large he was. He must have been the same massive raven that John had taken in about three weeks ago. Which meant that he also had saved John’s life in that alleyway. John’s memories were right, the raven  _ had  _ saved his life, and so did George, for they were the same entity.

And then a dark thought emerged. Was the only reason George had stayed with him was to repay a debt for saving his life? Did he only pretend to like John because it was the moral course of action? That if he had never brought that raven home, then George wouldn’t care for him at all— or that he really would have watched and stared as John was ripped apart by a stranger with a knife?

John sighed as he collapsed onto the bed. The thoughts made him squirm and shift, and he couldn’t stand it. Too much was happening at once. There was nothing to do but wait until morning so he could figure out what the hell was going on. Everything that had happened had taken its toll on John, exhausting him physically and mentally.

He just needs to rest his eyes for a minute...

A minute turned to an hour and then several. When John finally awoke, it was due to a terrible clacking sound. 

The raven was flying all over the room, scratching at the window. Talons scraped across the glass, creating a terrible noise.

“George!” he said, flying from the bed. He expected George to calm down, but instead he flew higher, perching himself on top of the bookshelf and staring at John warily. From the way the bird reacted, John wondered: was he really George? He was acting like a wild animal scared at the sight of John, who must have been a threat to him.

“I won’t hurt you mate,” John said, trying to appear as docile as possible. Yet his hackles were raised, the telltale sign of aggression. For every second the raven spent on top of the shelf, John began to doubt if the creature had ever been human. At the very least, he’s confident he’s the same bird that he had encountered before, his colossal size more prominent with sunlight.

More importantly, he was flying around and cawing, so that meant he wasn’t dying anymore. It then raised the question of how to transform him back into a human, that is if he was ever human to begin with.

John could still be going insane, he couldn’t tell.

He tip-toed to the bathroom, trying not to set off the bird. He remembered what kind of damage his claws can do, his cheek aching again. And once he got to the restroom, he cringed.

His appearance was a mess, his right cheek having a massive smear of red. Underneath the dried blood, his eyes were dark and sunken and his skin was pale. John turned on the water, scrubbing at his cheek, ignoring how it stung. If George was an animal, it explained why his nails were so damn sharp. It was going to be hard to explain how he got five horizontal lines running across his face. Maybe he could say it was a cat-scratch. A really big cat scratch. From a cat he doesn’t even own.

Not like he could get one now, considering he has a raven in his flat. The animal was still perched on the shelf, but was preening himself now.

“George?” John tried calling again.

The raven looked up and responded with a strange clicking sound before resuming his grooming.

The entire situation was fucked up.

But there was no way in hell John was going to let it stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far!
> 
> I was wondering if you guys would prefer shorter and more frequent chapters, or longer ones. Or maybe the length is fine as is? I'd really like to have your opinion on it


	17. Embrace

The rest of the day was spent indoors, John too afraid to let George out of his sights. Truth be told, he was too paranoid to relax, still worried about George’s mental state. Right now, he wasn’t exhibiting any sign of intelligence.

At the very least, he stopped assaulting the window and instead opted to stare out of it. He seemed placated by the cars passing by, as well as the tiny pedestrians. Could he be recognizing what he once was in their forms? 

John rubbed his face. He needed a drink; this raven business was too much for him. He stood up to fix himself a meal, and then settled for bread because he was too lazy to make anything substantial. As he stuffed a roll into his mouth, he saw the raven staring at him, head tilted in curiosity.

"Here, you can have some," John said as he tore off a chunk for the bird to eat. He spread his wings, flew over, and then— 

"Fuck!"

—pecked John's fingers as he stole the bread. 

"Yer a bastard, George," he said as the raven retreated to the top of the shelf to nibble on his bounty. Looking down, he saw his bleeding fingertips. His forearms were littered with nicks and scratches from George, standing out against the backdrop of scars. 

He just wished his friend would start acting like a human again. Ever hour that passed where he cawed and croaked took away from John’s well-being. It made him question if George would ever be back. He wanted weird human George, and not literal wild animal George.

He really wanted a sense of normalcy. Just some kind of anchor that proves he is living in reality. It could always be a possibility that this raven business was just a dream.

The phone began to ring. 

“John?” It was Paul’s voice.

“Yeah?”

“I was just checking in. Are you down to play tonight?”

“What?” John didn’t know they had a gig that night.

“I’ll take that as a no, then. How’s George doing?”

John couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped his lips. How do you explain that he turned into a bird? The answer: you don’t.

“He’s fine, resting up on the bed now,” he lied instead.

“Alrighty, I gotta call Eppy back and tell him that. He’s getting testy.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he was planning for the single to come out early October, but that was before you and George decided it was the perfect time to start dying.”

“I didn’t want to get stabbed, Macca!”

Paul snorted. “Honestly? You’re the type of person who’d get stabbed just to get out of work. But anyway, I’ll tell Brian that your stomach’s acting up.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I know you want to stay home and watch over George. Might as well adopt him at this point.”

Something in John froze at the suggestion. It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea, it was the fact that a part of him considered it. 

“John? You still there?”

“What? Yeah,” he hastily said. Could he adopt George? He obviously didn’t have any parents, or he did and they were birds too. He was already providing for George, and he looked like he was under twenty-one.

“You okay? You’re going quiet.”

“Yeah, it’s just— what if I was his guardian?”

Silence.

“That… was a joke, mate. Umm… I suppose you take care of him as is,” Paul’s hesitant voice said. 

“Yeah— ” John started, before noticing how uncomfortable Paul sounded. “Sorry, that’s a dumb question.”

“No, no, it’s not— We actually needed to know that.”

“Wait, what?”

“Uhh, there’s this managerial contract Brian wants us to sign, and since I’m under twenty-one, I have to phone me father. And, well, Geo looks younger than me, so...” he trailed. 

John had understood. They signed a managerial contract before, when Pete was still in the band, and since Paul wasn’t of age at that time, Jim McCartney was present. If George was underage, and he definitely looked and acted that way, then he would need a legal guardian or parent.

“Shit, don’t I have to court or something for that? So that’s it’s official?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been a legal guardian, John.”

“You know what we’ll do?”

“Make Eppy figure it out?”

“Make Eppy figure it out.”

Paul chuckled to himself. “Alright, tell George I said hi.”

“Will do, see you,” John said, and then the line went dead. He turned to see George staring at him.

“You better turn back into a human soon, you feathered fuck.”

George just cawed before tearing John’s pillows apart with his beak.

* * *

Night had come faster than John expected. He had to sleep that night with one less pillow, for George was a right bastard as a bird and tore up his other one. It was hard to clear his head, for every movement George made, John had to snap his head up and check. 

George had flown out of the nest John had made and was now standing in the middle of the floor. He was stiff, wings elongated. It looked like he was trying to stretch himself upwards…

Like he was trying to stand.

Then, George’s form began to rise up, legs growing, as well as his silhouette. John could see how the raven’s body uncurled, resembling as human’s. The feathers retracted and the skin turned from an unearthly ebony to a fleshy pink. Like the first time he changed, bones could be heard breaking and snapping. 

John heard a gasp of air that sounded distinctly like a person and not a bird. He couldn’t help but stare in awe as the creature became more and more human-like. He was finally recognizable as George, his  _ human  _ George.

It ended with the massive wings sliding back into the space under the shoulder blades and George standing at full height. 

And then he saw John and pure terror was written on his face.

“George?” John called. George didn’t respond at first, still paralyzed with fear. Then, he began to shake.

The first words out of his mouth after transforming was “I’m sorry— ” he moaned. “Sorry, sorry, sorry...”

“No, you don’t have anything to apologize for, Geo,” John said before climbing out of bed and embracing George in a hug. He didn’t even think twice about it, just wanting to comfort him.

“I wanted to be there for you, make things easier for you— and I messed it up— ”

“I’m not mad at you, Geo,” he said, but George curled in on himself. His legs gave out, and John had to hold George upright. The lad was whimpering in his arms, sliding down to the floor.

John found himself dropping down and holding him closer.

“I’m sorry, John...”

“Shut up, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But— ”

“No buts, come on,” John said as he hefted himself and George onto the bed. He had millions of questions related to his raven transformation, yet bit his tongue. There was a time and place for that. Right now, he needed to be there for George.

He placed a hand on George’s bony shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

“Come on, let’s get some sleep, alright?” he whispered, and George numbly nodded. He seemed terribly out of it, and for a moment, it seemed he was still ill. Looking at George’s face, he could already see how he had fallen asleep.

John sighed as his eyes began to drift close.  _ Why couldn’t anything be simple? _


	18. Worms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a chill chapter

Upon waking, John’s mind didn’t immediately register what was going on. All he knew was that he was in bed with a naked George wrapped around his torso. An immense feeling of deja vu passed, and he remembered what happened last night.

George had turned back into a human and broke down into tears as he collapsed with exhaustion. Looking closer at George’s face, John could see how his eyes were puffy and swollen. His face was no longer sunken and gaunt, but he still looked like hell.

His minute shuffling must have woken him up, for George’s eyes opened.

“Good morning,” John said, pausing.

George didn’t reply immediately, and John feared he was going to cry again. Instead, he sat up and asked, “You aren’t mad?”

“Mad? Mate, I was  _ scared. _ ” 

George’s eyes widened, shocked that John actually cared about his well-being.

“Sorry, I didn’t know that would happen. If I did, I wouldn’t have— ” 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You didn’t know,” John said, looking George straight in the eyes. George stayed silent as he gazed out of the window. John decided it was finally time to get answers to all the questions on his mind.

“So... you’re a bird,” John stated bluntly.

“...Yeah,” he replied, fidgeting with his massive nails. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“No, not that anyone would believe me anyway. Does anyone else know?”

“Uhh… yeah, but that was from a long time ago. I was just a kid, an’ so were they. I— um— I’d rather not...” he stammered, clawed hands reaching to stroke the tips of his hair.

“Yeah, that’s fine, I’m jus’... confused.”

“Why?”

“Well, for starters…  _ you’re a bird. _ ”

“And a human!”

John cocked an eyebrow in doubt and George stood up in anger. “I am!” he pouted.

“Really? ‘Cos last I checked, humans don’t fly and peck the shit out of you.”

George flushed and backpedaled. “I… thought I was unconscious?”

His innocent question made John stare. “You don’t remember a thing?”

“No. Did I… do that to your face?” George asked, feeling scared and guilty again.

“What? Yeah, but— you don’t remember anything at all?”

“Should I?”

“Christ,” John exhaled through his nose. “You were a bird.”

“That’s the third time you said that.”

“Yeah, but you were like a bird on the inside,” John said, pointing at his brain. “Does that normally happen?”

“How should I know? I’m new to this human thing.”

“You’re  _ what?! _ ”

“I haven’t tried being a human for years.”

“Then why start now?”

“Because I wanted to help you out, since, y’know, you helped me,” he admitted. 

Although he was touched by George’s straightforward flattery, his responses only made John more frustrated. “So you’re telling me you don’t have any clue what’s going on? Like, why you can change? Or how literally any of this works?”

When George shook his head no, John had to fight the urge to rip his face off in frustration. George is the weird shape-shifting bird-man: how could he not know how his own body works?!

All he wanted was a few answers so he could figure out what was happening, yet George just raised more questions. There was one more important thing he had to figure out.

“What about the crashing?”

“I crashed? Like, into a window?”

“No, like you passed out. Got really sick. What was with that?”

“It’s hard.”

“What is?”

“Being human. Like, it was getting tiring just to fight the urge to turn back. That’s why I closed the window; so I wouldn’t be tempted.”

“Huh. And you stayed human for me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“That’s really something,” John said. “Say, George?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate the thought, but don’t fucking do that again.”

George smiled. “I won’t, I promise.”

That smile gave John more relief than he imagined. It was nice having George back with him, even if nothing made sense anymore. 

The whole situation was extraordinary, and it seemed that they both were going to have to work out what was happening together. George was warily staring him down from the bed, probably still skittish about what had happened. His biggest secret had been revealed and he had almost died too. Anyone would be nervous after that, so it was understandable how cautious he was. 

John decided to make breakfast, something decent for George. It wasn't until he pulled out his last two eggs that he stopped.

"Uh, George?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't it cannibalism for you to eat eggs?"

George paused. "It depends."

"Depends on what?

"I won't eat other raven eggs, but chicken eggs are fine. Same applies to eating other birds."

"Oh, okay," John said, turning back to the stove. He only had two eggs, which meant one for each of them. However, a part of his mind nagged at him, telling him to give both to George. 

He sighed. Damn his conscience. 

"So I'm guessing—," George called from across the room, "—that humans don't eat human eggs, then."

One of the eggs slipped from John's hand and landed on the floor with a pathetic  _ plop. _

"Humans don't  _ fucking lay eggs!" _ John shrieked, feeling his sanity slowly strain. And then he realized he was down an egg. 

_ It's fine, _ John thought,  _ I was planning to have toast anyway. _

After George devoured his singular egg, John decided he needed to go out and buy some groceries, dragging George with him. He discovered quickly enough that his dietary preferences were very interesting, to say the least.

They were in a tackle shop, George pleading with John to buy a small package of worms, live, writhing worms.

"I'm only buying this if you eat them all," John said, ignoring the strange look the cashier gave him.

He watched in awe as George periodically slipped a nightcrawler into his mouth throughout the day. He melted with content while John had to fight the urge to gag. 

But regardless, it was nice to see him happy. George was here and he was safe, and that's what mattered. He hadn't told George the sheer panic that had overtaken him the night he had changed, and he wasn't going to. 

It was as if it was all some bizarre episode, already forgotten. John could close his eyes and pretend that it had never happened. It would certainly be a lot easier on his mind.

Yet it was all too fantastical to drop. Something truly magical had entered his life, and he would have to be a fool to ignore it.

"George, stop eating. We haveta head home," he said, tired of being out.

George nodded and the pair made their way back to the small flat.


	19. Signature

That night, John stared at George's naked form. The lad had stripped without warning and was standing in the middle of the flat. He gave a hesitant look behind him before stealing himself, and John marvelled at how he melted back into the form of a raven.

"Hey there," John started, unsure as to whether or not George was himself or an animal on the inside. The way the raven moved was very different from the last time he saw him. His movements were calm, collected, almost methodical. A wild animal was far more erratic. 

"Night, Geo," he muttered, and George croaked in response, making John smile.

That morning, the whole process was done in reverse, George turning back into a human. It was to become a daily occurrence for the two of them, but for now, it was completely alien.

Fortunately or unfortunately, John would have plenty of time to get used to it.

* * *

"So plee-ea-aase—" 

"—love me do-o."

John brought the harmonica up to his lips and began to play in time with the music. George, across the room, was strumming his guitar with an extreme precision, tapping his foot to Ringo's drumming. Ringo was smiling all the while, glad to be playing again. 

The first thing Ringo had done upon entering the studio was hug George, and the mood in the room lightened. They all played tight, performing their familiar songs even better than usual.

Their takes have been flawless in John's opinion, yet George Martin kept asking for another. And another. And another.

"How many more takes do you need?!" John snapped in impatience. "That last one was perfect," he argued.

"George's playing was sloppy," Martin said, and all eyes turned towards George.

He said, "...sorry," unaware of what was going on. And Paul shared the same sentiment.

"Can you believe this?" he whispered to John. But John didn't hear any of it. He was distracted by how ridiculous his situation was.

This serious record producer was currently criticizing a  _ bird _ on his guitar ability. 

He couldn't help but let a snort escape. He tried to maintain his composure as Paul continued.

"That last take  _ was  _ flawless, y'know?" he said, annoyed at how Martin seemed to be bullying George. "Geo can play twice as good as me, yet Martin keeps digging into him."

At the last sentence, John burst into laughter.  _ Paul! You just admitted you're worse than a bird!  _ The fact that Paul just looked plainly confused only made it all the more amusing to John. Paul didn't even know what mistake he had made. 

"Why are you laughing? You know it's true," he pouted.

That last comment made John have a fit of hysterics, cackling like a hyena. 

"John, get back to work!" Martin snapped. Someone was clearly in a bad mood.

Regardless, the four returned to recording, determined to finish today. Once they were done, Brian Epstein walked in with an older man in tow. George stared as the stranger went to Paul, placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Jim,” John said, waving.

George whispered into John’s ear. “Who’s Jim?”

“‘E’s me father,” Paul clarified, and looking at the two of them, George could almost see the resemblance. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” George said, holding out a hand. To be honest, he didn’t like the older man, but he was going to be polite. From the corner of his eye, he saw Brian smile approvingly.

“Of course, you already know John and Ringo, so let’s make this quick,” Brian said, pulling out a sheet of paper. “This is the managerial contract that I’ve told you all about. Please read it and sign.”

“Oi, what about George?”

“For simplicity’s sake, we’re assuming he’s twenty-one.”

“Still the youngest, Paul,” John sneered.

“He still looks like ‘e’s nineteen,” Paul mumbled, signing the contract. John signed as well, not bothering to read it. The two of them had already seen a version of this contract before George had joined. (And besides, John’s eyesight was so poor that he wouldn’t be able to read without touching his nose to the paper.) Ringo put down his signature too, using his real name, of course. Then it was George’s turn.

Yet he just stood there, pen in hand.

“George? What’s wrong?” Brian asked, and John suddenly realized why he wasn’t moving.

“I don’t know how to sign my name,” he said. George couldn’t read, so there was no way he would be able to write his name properly. Everyone in the room stayed silent, hoping that there was some kind of punch-line.

“You just write your name in cursive there,” Paul started, but George still didn’t make a move towards the paper.

“I don’t know how to write. Or read,” he said sheepishly, embarrassed by the egregious looks everyone was giving him.

“What do you mean you can’t read?!” Paul exploded, while Brian sputtered, unable to say anything coherent. Jim McCartney seemed to find it all rather amusing and was chuckling to himself. John laughed too, for everyone was getting mad that a  _ bird  _ couldn’t  _ read. _

At this point, John noticed Ringo had started to scribble something on a napkin. It was the name, “George Harrison,” written in a rather loopy script.

“Just copy this onto that paper,” he said, giving George the pen back. George did as told, copying it with more precision and speed than someone who had never written a word in their life should have.

“John, teach your boy to read!” Ringo jokingly said. Brian silently took the paper back, glancing at John.

“Ringo’s right, you should teach him,” he said. “I’m going to listen to the tapes.”

“Are we free to go?”

“Wait for Mr. Martin,” he called back as he left the room.

After that, they had been informed that the single was finally going to get pressed and released soon. Paul had gone off with his dad, thoroughly embarrassed by his father gushing about the single.

John and George took a bus home, clutching their guitars close to them. During the ride, George looked out the window, gazing at the passing cityscapes. 

“Hey John? I see the tackle shop.”

“If you ask me ‘Can we get some worms?’ then the answer’s gonna be no.”

“But Jo-o-o-o-ohn…!” he whined.

“If you want them so bad, go get ‘em yourself,” he said, expecting the conversation to end. He didn’t expect George to bounce up and down with excitement.

“Can I?”

“After we get home, okay? There’s no worms on the bus.”

George seemed placated, sitting back down, but still energetic. It made John wonder how Brian would react when he finds out George spends his money from record sales on worms. His poor manager would probably faint.

It then made John ask himself if he was ever going to tell the others about George. It wasn’t like sharing his secret would kill the lad, yet he was definitely nervous when he first found out. George had said that some other kids knew, but he also said that was a long time ago. They could be adults by now. They also had probably hurt him in some way, scaring him from being a human until he met John.

Honestly, it was George’s decision to make. It would be wrong of him to spill his secret, as much as he wanted to. He felt as though his mind would burst from holding it all in. It was hard to understand what it felt like to have your world shaken with no one to confide in.

He saw George preen himself through his reflection in the window.

God, he really wanted to talk to someone to prove he wasn’t insane.


	20. Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we're already at chapter twenty now
> 
> Thank you all for reading so far!

George had left in the middle of the night to do "raven things," leaving John to make dinner alone with the window wide open. The next day, George hadn't come back yet, so John decided to head over to Paul's. 

As usual, Paul accepted John with hospitality, and John made his way into his flat.

He liked to pretend Paul's nicer home was his own, and that he was a lot more successful than he was. Not that he would ever admit it, but John envied Paul's more put-together lifestyle. 

It's not like John could have it easy, especially now with the bird man living in his tiny flat.

Now that was a thought, what if John bought a bigger flat? He owed it George, at least, and if the singles take off… 

_ If,  _ he reminded himself. He shouldn't be making plans until he knew he had to money to afford them.

The two had spent the majority of the afternoon just in each other's company. Talking to Paul was very different from George, and John had forgotten what it was like. George sadly couldn't offer any worthwhile intelligent conversation. He just knew too little about human life. It was like talking to a child at times.

No offense to George, but John needs some space from him. He's… difficult to be around.

Eventually, John and Paul had pulled out their guitars and began to plunk away on them. They worked for an hour or two until Paul cleared his throat.

"Hey, John?" he hesitantly asked.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was talking to me dad last night," Paul started. "And we talked about the band and— and about Geo."

There was something very off about Paul's behavior, and he seemed almost nervous to be talking to John.

"What about George?" he asked, coming across more aggressively than he would have liked.

Paul shifted in his seat. "My dad, he recognized George's name," he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "There was a family that lived near us, you see."

John was about to ask what Paul was getting at when he heard a strange tapping sound.

Before Paul could continue, the tapping stopped, and then was replaced by thumping. John looked behind him to see what it was and saw George.

John blinked, hoping it was a trick of the light. It was not, and George kept persistently knocking at the window.

"What're you doing here, mate?" he asked as he opened it.

"The flat was locked and I couldn't get in," George explained, crawling into Paul's house.

"You didn't give him a key?" Paul asked, shocked at how George came in through the window instead of the door.

"I only have one key," John said, keeping the fact that George doesn't have pockets when he's a bird. In fact, George didn't wear any clothes as a bird, so the fact that he was wearing a shirt and pants now made no sense. The only explanation was that George stole them. John couldn't scold him for his kleptomaniac behavior, finding it incredibly amusing himself.

"Sorry for barging in, Paul," George apologized.

"No, it's fine. You can, um, help yourself," Paul said offhandedly, and George wandered towards the fridge, muttering, "Thanks, Paul."

John watched the interaction with interest. Those two were very awkward with each other and it made John realize that he was the only one who was George's friend. Paul was staring at John with a look that screamed,  _ I don't want him here. _

"So, what were you saying?"

Paul suddenly seemed nervous, eyes darting between John and George.

"Ah, it's nothing. I'll tell you later."

"Tell who what later?" George asked, holding an egg.

"Nothing, nothing!" Paul hastily said. "What're you gonna do with that egg?" he asked, changing the topic.

"Oh, you said I could help meself," George said, before sticking the egg in his mouth.

_ Crunch. _

_ Crunch. _

"John, did he just start eating a raw egg?" Paul whispered.

_ Crunch. _

A small dribble of yellow yolk spilled out of his mouth.

"He did."

Paul and John stared in silence as George ate, the cracking of eggshell filling the room.

"Anyways!" Paul suddenly said. "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

Paul's newfound burst of energy caught John off-guard. "Go to the bathroom, maybe eat dinner," he replied.

"Come on, I'm being serious," Paul said with a smile.

"I can't say I have any plans. Why're you asking?"

"Tomorrow's your birthday, did you forget?"

George perked up at the words like a dog. John didn't want to admit that he had completely forgotten between the stabbing and George being a magical bird man.

"We got a show tomorrow though," he said. "I'll probably just go to a pub or something."

"How old are you now?" George asked. 

"Twenty-two," John said. "It's all downhill from here."

Paul chuckled and picked up his guitar again. "I don't know about that. I'd say that things are looking up now."

John leaned back into the couch and stared out the window. He felt the cushions dip and saw that George had laid next to him, head inches from John's lap. He was too tall for the couch and his legs hung over the armrest.

"So a birthday is like a celebration of age?"

Paul stopped playing.

"Uh, yeah, every year on the day you were born," John said.

"Mmm… mines February."

Paul glared at George.

"How do you not know what a birthday is, yet know when yours is?" he asked.

"I just do. It's February 25th."

_ February 25th, _ John mentally filed away. He had to remember that, but then it begged the question of how George knew. He was a bird, and last he checked, they don't have calendars in the forest.

Paul returned to plucking at his guitar and John rested his hand on George's head. His hair was silky and soft, just like his feathers when he was a raven.

The song Paul was playing was nice enough, and John began to tap his foot, hand still running through George's hair. Eventually, his fingers began to scratch at George's scalp and John could see how his eyes fluttered close. 

He tried to pull his hand up, but when he did, George's eyes opened and he gently pulled John's hand back down. 

_ He's more like a cat than a bird _ , John mused as he scratched behind his ears.

As he did, George curled further in, until his head was firmly in John's lap. 

"He's like a cat," Paul said, voicing John's thoughts.

"Yeah, he is."

"I— Hey, Geo? Can you go outside for a bit?"

"Sure," he said, not questioning it at all. Unsurprisingly, he exited through the window.

"Here's the key, go to the flat, alright?" John said and George nodded.

Paul let out a sigh of relief when he was out of sight. 

"Christ, he's a handful."

"Well you sure seem happy now."

"I don't hate George or anything, but he's not exactly me best friend."

John didn't reply, slightly offended at Paul's lack of respect for George. Even though he shared his feelings with Paul, hearing it come out of someone else's mouth just made his blood simmer.

"Right, I wanted to tell you about what me dad said. He said that the Harrisons lived near us and that their youngest son disappeared a while ago."

Something in John shivered. He didn't know that this was what Paul was going to say.

"His name was George Harrison and he vanished when he was about seven."

"And you think that he's their missing kid?"

"I know it's crazy, but I really think so."

_ Yeah, that's great Paul, but there's a massive detail you're missing. He's a bird, not a human,  _ John thought. 

"I was going to visit them soon, actually. If he's really their son, they deserve to know, y'know?"

"No, I don't know," John said and Paul sighed.

"You should come with me. It'd be good for George to meet his real family too."

"An' you know what's best for him now? Just a minute ago, you were saying good riddance! And now you're—" John hadn't realized how loud his voice had become until Paul flinched at the sound.

"...sorry," he said. Paul seemed almost shocked.

"What's that look for?"

"Nothing, I'm just a little surprised," Paul said. "You've mellowed out lately."

John stared for a second, questioning if Paul's words were true. He did have a bad temper at times, but was he really getting better?

"Whatever, you can see the Harrisons. I'm gonna head home," John said, abruptly leaving.

"Alrighty, see you."

And with that, he exited the flat to return to his own. It was a rude exit, but he grew tired of being with Paul. His hypocritical behavior had pissed off John far more than it should.

It all made coming back to his small flat with George all the more welcoming. There was an appeal to George. He was ignorant and childish, but also very honest and kind.

When John walked in, he asked George to get their guitars. They spent the rest of the day playing together as equals, and John was at ease. It was surprising how easily they had clicked.

He had a good time that evening, and went to sleep feeling content.


	21. Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Did you know that penguins give stones to their mates as a courtship gesture?
> 
> Pretty neat

First thing John saw when waking up was George's face inches from his face. 

"Happy birthday," he said. Blunt and to the point, as usual. His arms were bent awkwardly behind himself, however.

"Thanks, Geo," John yawned. "What's that behind your back there?"

George looked away and slowly revealed what he was holding. It was a small, pale orange stone, between the size of a golf ball and a baseball. The most interesting thing about it was the way it was shaped. The stone was made of layered circular discs cutting through each other. If he squinted, it almost looked like a white rose. From the way George held it, arms outstretched towards John, he knew it was a gift.

John took it and held it up to the soft sunlight of dawn and saw the light pass through it.

"It's beautiful," he said. He was too entranced by the unique crystal in his hand to notice the heavy pink hue on George's face.

Turning around so John couldn't see his heavy blush, he mumbled, "Glad you like it."

"Yeah, it's really gear. Where'd you find this, anyhow?"

George, still not looking at John, said, "Spain, I think."

"When did you have time to go to Spain?" John asked before remembering he was a bird. "Sorry, forgot you could fly for a minute there," John said. "So you've been to a lot of places then?"

George finally turned around. "Uh, yeah, mostly down South during winter."

"So, it's more like migrating instead of travelling then."

George nodded in response.

For a moment John felt a small stab of anxiety. "Are you gonna leave here when it gets colder?" he asked, trying to sound as though his innards weren’t churning.

"I won't," George said with a determined voice. "There's no need to, it's nice here."

John's stomach unclenched at his words. "I'm glad," he said.

George smiled in turn and asked him, "Do you want me to make breakfast for you?"

"I'd appreciate it," John said. George was just so eager to please that he was already moving towards the kitchen to look for ingredients.

" 'M gonna take a shower," he called out. It wasn't until he was in the bathroom turning on the water that George spoke.

"You want your eggs raw or cooked?"

A wide grin broke out across John's face. "Cooked, please."

"Got it!" George yelled with energy.

* * *

They had left the flat on high spirits, and John felt more optimistic about his birthday than yesterday. Their bellies were full of food, courtesy of George. He had made a rather decent dish and was getting competent in the kitchen. (No way he was better at cooking than John, though. He wasn't going to ever admit a bird is a better chef than him.) 

George was also a surprisingly large carnivore, practically having a plate of raw sausage as John dug into his more well-rounded meal. George had gone to the store in record time to buy the ingredients for it all, but John doesn't know where he gets the money. It wasn't until he passed by an off-duty officer that he found out.

The man was in his uniform, hand running through his thinning hair. His face was bulbous and red and resembled a tomato, sticking out against the blue of his clothes. 

"Morning," John said without thinking as he passed the man. He could hear George echo, "Morning," albeit much more timidly.

The officer, instead of greeting them back, let out a horrible, whiny sigh.

"Well, you seem to be having the time of your life," John commented. Something about seeing someone have a bad time made him feel better.

Well, it usually did. This time, the man's defeated posture tugged at him.

"I've had a lot of weird calls in the past, but this one takes the cake," the man started, and John realized he was just waiting for someone to rant to.

"The funniest case I ever had was last year. This woman, she called us thinking some burglar broke into her home. When we arrived though, it turns out her husband forgot his keys and was trying to get back in," he said. From his inflection, John could tell that it was a joke, but he was just confused as to why this man was telling him this.

“Hah, well, you see, I thought that was a pretty funny call. Mean, I was annoyed when I had to come in at two in the morning, but—” he rambled.

_ Please shut up,  _ John mentally begged.

“—it was funny afterwards, and I know I’ll say the same about this, but it’s just ridiculous, positively insane—”

_ God,  _ John thought,  _ this was one of those people who just liked to hear themselves talk.  _ He was about to turn back around and keep walking when the policeman finally got to the point. 

“—just how does one go about arresting a bird?”

That statement made John swivel on his heels.

“What did you say?”

“A crow or a raven, I forget the difference. We got a call last week and it was a good laugh, but then more kept coming in. And the little guy takes all sorts of things like clothes and food and one gentleman lost his watch— ”

John looked at George to see him staring down at his feet.  _ So that’s where he gets the money to buy things.  _ George locked eyes with John and winked.  _ Cheeky bastard. _

“—the whole thing is absolutely unheard of! How do we track down the one bird out of thousands that’s stealing everything?” 

“I’d start by getting smaller handcuffs,” John said as he dragged George away from the man.

They powerwalked for about half a block before John put his arm around George and spoke directly into his ear.

“A watch, huh?”

“Yeah,” George whispered. “Had to get the window fixed somehow.”

“Christ, did you steal it while the chap was wearing it?”

George flashed a toothy grin which told John all he needed to know.

“You’re real gutsy, you know that?” John said. “Bloody lunatic, you are."

He tousled the Hair on George's head before putting his hands in his pocket. George ran his fingers through his hair like a comb, trying to tame his mane. 

His hair did look shaggier, almost as if it grew back faster than a normal person.

"Keep growing your hair like that and we'll have to get it cut again."

"Do I have to?" George whined.

“Yeah, unless you want to look like a bird.”

“But I am a bird,” he said, unaware of the meaning of the slang John used. It was a simple misunderstanding, but it made the image of George in makeup and a dress pop into John’s head. It wasn’t sloppy and cheap either. He could see him in a long black dress with a deep maroon lipstick.

It wasn’t until George sharply tugged on John’s jacket that he noticed he was about to walk straight into a lamppost. He quickly felt shame flush his face. Why did  _ that thought  _ distract him so? 

_ It was probably because I haven’t been with a girl since I met George,  _ he told himself. John was just starved and his mind was starting to yell at him to do something and find someone. 

His brain thought then that it was the best time to conjure another image of George, this time far more suggestive, and John dismissed it as quickly as possible.

He was sweating at this point and the way George was sauntering on with no notice just made it worse.  _ What was wrong with me today?  _ John mentally slapped himself. 

“Come on, you’re lagging behind,” George yelled from in front of John.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the grooves in the stone George had gifted him. Despite his terribly perverse thoughts, today was shaping up to be decent. Daresay, even good. 

“Alright, I’m coming,” he said as he chased after George’s receding form.


	22. Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincidentally, John celebrates his 22nd birthday in chapter 22
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!

After arriving at the Cavern, they played a lunchtime show. Since it was John’s birthday, he naturally picked all the songs and purposely chose ones that favored heavy solos. In other words, songs for George to shine. It made John really think about writing something new. George was a good player and he could play twice as fast with twice as many notes and still do fantastic. John could write something that hit hard and fast and he knew George could deliver. Of course, he had no clue if George had any propensity towards songwriting, but he was willing to try. 

Their show ended but not before Paul coaxed the audience to sing Happy Birthday for John. They all then had to run some quick errands for Brian. Just minor things, a contract here, a photoshoot there. It all went by in a blur and the night descended in record time. 

John remembered last year when he and Paul traipsed in Paris for his birthday. They were able to go with a generous gift of money from a relative, and he had an absolutely fantastic time. 

Although he's in a pub and not Paris on his 22nd, he's still enjoying himself quite a bit. They're drinking, having fun, and just enjoying themselves. Although, if he were to be honest, he should have kept an eye on how much George was drinking. 

He might be as tall as John, maybe a little over, but he’s rail thin and weighs even less. 

“ ‘Am jus’ so…  _ fookin’ _ happy right now!” George shouted next to him.

He had no idea what alcohol was and drank without reserve. He downed one or two glasses too many and was now a giggling mess. John got to answer the burning question on everyone’s mind,  _ what would happen if a raven got drunk?  _ The truth is not very different from a person, but it was still good fun.

“ _ John, Happeeee birth! _ ” George yelled as he practically climbed onto John and swung his arms around him for a hug.

If John was more sober, he would have flinched at his touch and feel uncomfortable at the sensation of their thighs pressing together. However, John was a little buzzed too and found himself enjoying it all far too much. 

“Did I tell yeh that alrrrrready? I forgot,” George said.

“Yeh told me twelve times, yeh bastard.”

“No, yer a fookin’ bastard!”

“ ‘E’s got a dirtier mouth than yeh, John,” Paul said as he swished the residual liquid around in his glass. After seeing how pathetically lightweight George was, he decided to hold back for the sake of the group.

John snorted and saw George pull himself over to Ringo where he started to pull the rings off of his hand and pocket them like some bandit. Ringo didn't mind at all, gently chuckling at his antics.

George was like that all night, remaining blissfully joyous and finding everything in the dirty pub to be unequivocally astonishing.

They were just four lads, having a merry time. Ringo and Paul had even bought a small cake for him, although it only had twelve candles instead of twenty-two.

"Ran out, unless you want the big candles we use on the table for dinner," Paul said.

"Can't even get me the right number of candles. Do I look like a kid to yeh?"

A loud clap came from George.

"I'm gonna do a magic trick!" he yelled before grabbing one of the candles and snapping it in half. "Now! We have," he paused to count them all, "fourteen!"

"Way to go, Georgie!" John cheered. He watched as he methodically snapped each cheap candle in two, because John just  _ had  _ to have twenty-two.

After the eleventh candle was broken, Ringo spoke.

"Yeh went  _ over twenty-two,  _ now we got an extra."

"I'm gonna do a magic trick of me own. Watch," John said, taking the last candle and sticking it in his mouth like a cigarette. 

He then pulled out a lighter and pretended to smoke its blowing out imaginary smoke rings. "Now," he said, "there is the correct number of candles. Congratulations, me birthday isn't ruined anymore."

Ringo whooped and clapped and they began to sing as John blew out the tiny flames and dug in.

George ate like a savage by one: using his hands, and two: only eating the cake part and not the frosting. John ended up finishing his slices, as well as too many of his own. 

It was his birthday, though. He could afford to live a little.

It wasn't until it was far past any decent time to head to bed when the festive spirit died. John had asked a simple favor.

“Paul, be useful and get us some more drinks,” John said and Paul replied:

"Make yer bird do it."

John looked around to see George stop babbling to himself and hazy eyes starting to sharpen. 

"The fuck did yeh say?" John muttered, momentarily caught off-guard by Paul's words.

"You heard me," Paul muttered, bitterness dripping into his voice.

"What the  _ fuck  _ do you mean by that you cunt?!" John exploded, slamming the table so hard the glasses rattled and tipped right onto Paul. His head tilted down to see the massive stain that had formed.

"What the hell, John?!"

Like a candle being doused, all of John’s anger was replaced with shame. He could feel the blood rush to his head. Then, Paul started to stand.

“Fuck, Paul! Get back here— I’m sorry.” The words spilled from John’s lips. “I'm a shithead, come on, please come back—” 

"John—" Paul started. "It's already really late, I should head back home."

Paul walked out the door, but not before paying for all the drinks. The way he acted fell onto John with the weight of guilt. 

John could feel his stomach lurch and he got up to follow and chase Paul down.

And promptly fell sideways into the wall.

Ringo caught him and sat him back down.

"Don't worry 'bout Paul, he'll come 'round," Ringo said to John without making eye contact. "He's just not used to being number two."

"Number two? Like he has to take a shit?" John said, voice distant.

Ringo laughed. "No, to George. He's just sad you're not best mates with him anymore. Don't take it personally."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Yer the boss," Ringo replied.

John nodded, the words slowly drifting into his brain. 

"I'm gonna head home now. Yeh need any help with him?" Ringo asked, pointing at George. He was currently leaning on a large wall mirror, trying to converse with his reflection.

"Naw, 's fine.  _ Gawrge!  _ Get over 'ere!"

George's head whipped around and wobbled.

"Son, are yeh sure you'll be okay?" Ringo asked with more concern. "He looks… grey."

"Yeah 'e does look great, doesn't 'e?" John said, mishearing him.

"Err… right. I'll talk to Paul. You two stay safe, alright?"

"I can fuckin' kill everyone in this room," George declared, and John knew that, yes, he probably could if he could hold his liquor better. Right now, he was a babbling idiot.

"We'll be fine, get out of here, Richie."

"See yeh tomorrow, then," Ringo said, waving goodbye. 

He left the pub and John quickly followed, dragging George with him. The lad was still giddy and singing, trying to get John to join him. 

By the time they were halfway to John's flat, George started to flag, teetering back and forth. He fell onto John's shoulders, letting the soles of his shoes scrape across the pavement. 

"Come on, Geo, use yer legs."

In response, John heard a warbling. He could see George's hand draped over his shoulders and saw how his hands had turned from mammalian digits to avian talons. 

"Mate?" he asked again, and George let out a breathless laugh before cooing like a pigeon. It was just like that fateful night when George had first turned into his true form. During that storm, George had attacked John in a blind panic and the memories made John's mouth dry. Was he turning back? Not just physically, but mentally too?

John reached back and slid his arms under George's thighs, hoisting him up to carry him back home piggyback-style. It was concerning how light he was, but John was more occupied with how George seemed incapable of human speech. John tried to hurry back as fast as he could, but he couldn't. He didn't want to jostle George anymore than he needed to.

By the time they got back to the flat, George felt like he was twenty pounds lighter. Once John deposited him onto the bed, he could see why. George was practically one-third raven at this point, already sporting a large frill of feathers around his neck. 

He was honestly thankful Paul had left so hastily. If they all had stayed at the pub, George would have transformed in front of everyone, and that was a situation John couldn't even begin to think of how to handle.

He distinctly remembers taking off George's clothes before he could have a chance to rip them off with his claws. He then fell into the bed as George finished changing, falling asleep.

When John woke up, he could feel George's human form press against him. His arm was holding George by his midsection and his nose was buried in the crook of his neck. George must have turned back in the middle of the night, letting John cuddle him in his sleep.

His cheeks flamed up and he tried to rise out of bed, but couldn't. Their legs were tangled together and the cold air of the flat stung the second he emerged from under the blanket.

He didn't want to have to wake up George, so he slowly laid back into his previous position. John had to admit to himself that he had never been this intimate with another man. Even with all the time he spent with Paul, they wouldn't hug each other or hold hands. It was just something you don't do. Whenever they had to share a bed, it was always top-to-tail, usually leaving them gagging on the scent of each other's feet.

It was just weird for two guys to be close like that. You can be all affectionate with girls, but definitely not with another bloke.

Yet George… he didn't care at all. John could probably kiss him on the lips and he'd smile in turn. The thought alone made something in John heat up. It was nice, laying in bed, feeling the warmth radiate off of another's body. Cozy… that was the word he could use. It was cozy. 

Perhaps John was too tired to think of anything else. Maybe he was too distracted by the low, slow heart-beat coming from George and the gentle waves of breath.

He shifted even closer to George.

It was nice, just laying there and John knew for a fact that George didn't care at all about how weird it was to snuggle up with another guy. And if George didn't mind, and John enjoyed it, then what was stopping them from just… sleeping together?

John's eyelids dropped close before he could even answer his mental question. A part of him didn't even care for the answer.


	23. Beans

John had a nice dream. He can't remember for the life of him what it was about, but it was lovely. 

So it bothered him immensely that it was interrupted by a loud knocking at his door.

"Piss off," he grumbled, but the knocking continued, the sound of fist-on-wood boring into his skull. He groaned; whoever it was was not going to stop until he got up.

Upon opening the door, he saw Ringo, which caught him off guard. He wasn't as close to Ringo as he was with Paul, for he had joined the band so recently. Yet, George joined after him and they were extremely close...

John shook his head; George was an exception to most rules. He shouldn't overthink things.

"Morning, Richie," he yawned. "What're you up to?"

"Came in to check on you two. You weren't answering the phone," Ringo said. 

"Christ, you an' Paul both keep checking on me like a kid," John said, mostly to himself.

"Yeah but you two were drinking a lot, least Geo was," Ringo said. "Me and Paul were worried you'd forget about the show today."

"I didn't forget, I know we have a show tonight."

"And at lunchtime."

"And at—" John paused. "Shit, we have two shows today?" he asked and Ringo nodded. 

"George! Get up!" John shouted as he quickly ran into the flat. He had his watch next to his bed and he cringed as he read the time: 11:45.

They had fifteen minutes to get to the Cavern.

Haste and panic set in and John was scrambling to clean himself up. His clothes were wrinkled from sleeping in them overnight, but he didn't have time to change. There was a stain on his pants, but they were already black. No one would notice in the dimly lit club, right? 

George was getting up now, but the way he slowly rose told John he was having the worst hangover of his life.

(Probably the only hangover in his life so far, but still.)

He clambered out of bed at a snail's pace, eyes open, but not looking at anything.

Ringo then cleared his throat. "I'll, uh, wait for you outside," he said. His eyes were looking everywhere but inside the flat and John couldn't understand why until he turned around. The only thing of interest was George clambering out of bed looking for something to wear.

_ Oh. _

Although such a sight had grown extremely familiar to John, the fact of the matter was that George was completely naked. 

John could see the cogs turning in Ringo's head. George is naked, George is in the bed, John only has one bed, John slept with George while he was naked in bed...

"Put some clothes on!" John yelled, but George didn't move.

"...clothes?" he quietly asked.

_ Fuck, his brain is completely fried, _ John realized.

They didn't have time for this! John had to throw some garments at George before he figured it out. All the while, his face was flushed red and he was scared of what Ringo would think. He hefted their two guitars over his shoulder and went to Ringo.

"He sleeps naked," John panted. "I swear to God, it's what he does, I wasn't—"

"Calm down," Ringo said, putting his hands up. "I don't mind what you two do together—"

"We're not bloody queer," John huffed, trying not to shout. He had to be calm or else Ringo would definitely suspect them. "He just doesn't like clothes."

"Alright, but you don't have to look like you're about to kill me," he said. "I'd believe you."

John didn't notice that he was glaring at Ringo, but the hammering in his chest quieted and he turned to the flat.

"George, we gotta go!" he yelled and the man in question came out. They had fifteen minutes to hoof it to their gig and George's meandering had probably killed five minutes already.

"Um, can I have me rings back?" Ringo sheepishly asked. John groaned as he handed a guitar to George and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out four rings. "Take 'em," John said as he tossed them to Ringo, who was starting to move while putting them on.

Ringo was at the front, already running ahead. George was following him, head aching with every step, and John was last, burdened with the heavier of the two guitars. Halfway there, John could feel sweat soaking into his shirt and made George trade guitars with him. In doing so, he saw a splatter of red on George's white shirt. He prayed it was unnoticeable; they didn't have time to head back and fix it.

Upon getting in, Paul was immediately fussing about their disheveled appearances and their lack of punctuality. John hissed at his vain attempts to straighten out his hair while George stood there, eyes closed still as a statue. At the very least, Paul was talking to them. He had left prematurely last night, but John couldn't remember exactly what it was that set him off.

Paul already had his bass in hand and leaned over to John. "He's not gonna sing," Paul stated, thumb jerking back at George. John looked behind him, wondering why Paul thought he could make such an executive decision when he caught a good look at his bandmate.

George, when drunk, had the mental capacity of a four year old. However, now he looked to be forty-four, his face permanently warped into a scowl. The dim lights only made him look sharper and older, and the fact that he wasn't speaking at all contributed more. All he did was trail after John like a shadow.

There was a slight twinge of embarrassment when John realized he failed to take in just how miserable he looked.

"Mate, you alright?"

"...me head hurts..." George mumbled.

He turned to Paul and they both nodded. It would be best if George kept his mouth closed during the show.

"Christ," Paul suddenly swore. "Don't you own any clean shirts?"

He saw Paul go to George, about to touch that red stain that he prayed was ketchup, but as his hand approached, George started to grumble. It was low and quiet and Paul didn't heed it. The second his finger was on the smudge, however, George snapped, his fangs bared, growling.

It reminded John of his neighbor's dog from years ago. The guy would growl and roar at anyone who passed, his deep, guttural barking scaring anyone who dared approach. This one dog had frightened John to the core even though he had never seen him beyond the tall fence he was enclosed in. The dog had become this unnamed beast to avoid at all costs, even if John had never seen him.

The hellish sound that came out of George's throat reminded him all too much of that monstrous dog he had feared and he flinched away. Paul too had jumped away, eyes wide with alarm.  _ That sound  _ had come from  _ George.  _ The same George who was giggling like a child last night looked like he was seconds away from slitting Paul's throat. All over a ketchup stain. (Although, now, it was probably _blood._ )

Everyone quickly huddled away from him and ran on stage. There was simply no time, and they couldn't tune the guitars before the four of them were on and playing. George stuck firmly in the back, far away enough that he looked like he wasn't a part of the group at all. Paul had belted out twice as hard to compensate for the lack of energy, although he didn't need to. Like clockwork, George hit every note on time, never faltering, even if it sounded a bit stiff. 

The songs might have been energetic and intense, but George was anything but. He looked like he would rather be in a dumpster, taking a nap than on stage and it made John grow worried.

Did George even like playing music? Did he even like music at all?

There wasn't a time he could recall where George had played a song of his own volition. It had always been to practice or to perform, never for fun. He knew George had joined the band as a way to repay John for taking him in a month ago, but if he didn't feel indebted, then he most likely wouldn't have joined. George mechanically moved his left hand up the neck of the guitar and made a bar chord. He said he liked being with John, but there was the fact that George couldn't handle being human. The lad had completely collapsed when he tried to before. 

George, standing alone on the other side of the stage, was isolated. He didn't have any friends or family or anyone who truly understood who he was. John was the closest to him, but he was beginning to realize how much distance was between them. And it was all coming from the guilt of indirectly forcing him into a band when he couldn't care less about music.

He certainly didn't look happy, although if it was from the hangover or a genuine disinterest in playing, John didn't know. It made the afternoon show drag on longer than it should, and John was more than eager to let the other band on the bill take over. The performance was shoddy at best, not that anyone would have noticed. One could almost understand what George Martin was on about when he critiqued George's skill. "Playing without passion," as he put it. 

They left and Paul quickly informed John he was going to see the Harrisons alone. John and George weren't presentable as they were, with stained clothes from the night prior, so they weren't invited. Besides, it would be a shock to poor Mr. and Mrs. Harrison to be reunited with her son while he was hungover.

So he headed off and Ringo went with him, just for some company. They left John and George to do as they wished until their evening show.

Since George was not in a talkative mood, John simply said, "Let's get something to eat," before walking off, guitar in hand. George trailed behind and soon John found himself reaching into his pockets for any change. As expected, he had very little, just coins and bits of lint. He sighed; there wasn't enough to buy food at the club. They got payments for their shows at the end of the week, so John couldn't ask for the pay now, regardless of how desperate they were. Never had the menu looked more appetizing, John suddenly craving the taste of a hot dog.

They shuffled along the sidewalk until they passed by a store that carried a bit of everything, including a small shelf stocked with beans visible through the window. George gravitated towards them and swiped two cans and was already on the way out. 

As much as John would want to save his money and let George steal them, he really shouldn't. He could hear Aunt Mimi and Brian and Paul all nagging at him about how his kleptomania was a bad habit and how it should be stopped now before it became a problem. With hesitance, he led George to the counter and ignored his look of protest. They left, John now penniless and George still silent, this time with two cans of baked beans.

They kept walking until they hit the docks and John noted how the days were getting shorter. The sky was already starting to twinge orange, light bouncing off of the water in the distance. George sat himself down on a stone wall facing the water and John found himself climbing up to be next to him.

Although John wished he had enough cash to buy a hot dog and a coke, the choice of beans wasn't shabby. He tapped on George's shoulder, pointing at the cans.

"Give me one," he said and waited as George begrudgingly handed one over. John paid for both of them, so it was amusing how reluctant George was to share.

Beans were nice, and John began to salivate as he moved to open the can—

—And realized he didn't have a can opener.

He had spent all his money on some beans and they couldn't even eat them because they were sealed in impenetrable steel canisters. Why did he let George pick the food trapped in cans? Why didn't he have enough money to buy one lousy hot dog?

_ Crunch. _

His head snapped towards the sound and he saw George ripping into his can, using his sharpened talons to puncture the top and peel it open. He then used three fingers to scoop beans from the can into his mouth. If George cared about how he looked at all, he never showed it, shoveling beans in and staining his fingers and face.

John waved his can of beans in front of George's face hoping he would take the hint and open it. He did, ripping the lid off with ease. The nonchalance he did it with just reminded John of how George wasn't human. He was a predatory animal that hunts and kills to survive. And somehow, this scary bird man thought John was decent enough and wanted to stick by him. He felt flattered by the thought, wondering just how he was able to get George's loyalty. 

He took the opened can back and examined the jagged edge George had made. Instead of using his hands, John opted to raise it to his mouth and slowly tip it back like a glass of water. They were mushy, but that was to be expected.

He was taken off-guard by George suddenly placing his head on John's shoulder. 

"Sorry about today," he started. "I've just been tired."

"It's fine. You feeling better?"

"I wanna take a nap, really."

"You can right now if you want."

George hummed, but didn't move, too comfortable leaning on John. "I jus'," he said with a yawn, "jus' don't like being around other people."

Then, he started to nuzzle the space between John's neck and collarbone. "I like being with you, though," he said, voice growing softer. John could feel his hand shyly wrap around his own, grasping it gently.

"Are you… happy? With me?" John finally asked.

"Yeah..." George said, his voice on the verge of sleep.

"Hey mate, you can get some rest but not on me," John said, feeling upset at the receding warmth of George's body as he slowly leaned off.

George nodded and slid off of the wall. John wondered where he was going to go and watched as he approached a low-hanging tree. In three seconds, George had climbed up to the top, and was now resting languidly in the branches.

"Come up here," he said, as if it was the easiest task in the world. Regardless, John walked over and began to mount, careful not to drop his beans. It took about half a minute of maneuvering until he could rest in the branches. He was worried about how the tree could support both of their weights, but it held up fine.

_ How funny,  _ he thought. Here they were, two guys eating beans in a tree without a care in the world. And if he were to be honest, a cheap can of beans never tasted better.


	24. Keys

Against all odds, John had fallen asleep in the tree with George. He didn't mean to; he had just spaced out looking across the sea. The next thing he knew his back ached, his body was stiff, and the sky was dark. He looked at his wrist to see what time it was, before he found that his watch was gone.

He must have forgotten it in the rush to get to the show. Regardless, they had lost track of time and Paul was going to slaughter the two of them.

At the very least, he was woken up by the shouts of children. They were near the wall the two had sat on earlier and were cautiously looking around, scanning their environment. If they weren't so obnoxiously loud, John would have probably been unconscious for longer.

He nudged George. "Hey, wake up," he said, noting how comfortable he looked snoozing in the branches. It'd be a shame to wake him, but they had a gig to get to.

George stretched out before giving a massive yawn and staring at John. 

"Mornin'," he drawled.

"Evening," John said. "You feeling better?"

"Mmhmm..." he trailed. John marvelled at how his posture made the tree look like a plush mattress. It made him forget about the feeling of a nail being stuck in his spine.

"We got a show tonight, come on," he said, but instead of climbing down, George's gaze shifted from John to the group of children.

"What're they up to?" he asked and John turned around. There were about four of them, and they were all huddled around a guitar case. George's guitar case.

_ Oh shit. _

It was foolish to leave their instruments unattended, especially while they were  _ napping  _ in a  _ tree!  _ No rational thought process would have led to this scenario. John practically threw himself out onto the sidewalk, falling on his calves and wincing at the pain. But there wasn't time to climb down carefully: the four brats had their hands all over the case and he knew they were about to drag it away.

"Oi, you fuckers!" he yelled, not caring that it were children on the receiving end of his wrath. Upon hearing his voice, the kids scrambled, dropping the case in the process. John could hear the strings twang from the collision and he darted over. Opening the case, he saw that George's guitar was intact, but there was no sign of his own. He cursed. How were they supposed to play with only one guitar? It was late, he had no idea what time it was, and now John had lost his guitar and he didn't have a spare nor enough money to afford another.

He didn't want to have to ask George to steal another guitar, but he really didn't have much choice. 

"John," George called as he put his hand on John's shoulder. "Take my guitar and go to the show without me."

"I'm not gonna—"

"Paul already dislikes me," George said. "He won't care if I'm not there."

John, as loathe as he was to admit it, agreed. Paul would probably be happy George was absent if anything.

"Fine, but what're you gonna do tonight?"

"Steal some money, get another guitar," George started and John laughed at his bluntness.

"Don't. We'll figure something out tomorrow, alright?" he said and George hesitantly nodded. John then fished into his pockets and pulled out a small key.

"Can you take this to a locksmith before you head home?"

"Alright," George said as he took it. "What for?"

"To make a copy. I trust you not to lose it."

"I promise I won't," George said, clasping the key tightly. John smiled at the gesture. He knew George wouldn't let him down. He nodded and began to sprint away. The show was probably about to start, and John could only hope that he wasn't too late. The passersby on the street all stared as he ran past, him not stopping to ask the time. His back was truly aching now, but he muscled through it. 

The club eventually came into view and John had to shove through the people standing in the entrance. Some shot him strange looks at his disheveled appearance, others at his rude behavior. Eventually, he made it to the small room behind the stage where Ringo and Paul were waiting, slamming the door open.

"John?" Paul asked, shocked by how he barged in.

He had to wait for a moment to catch his breath. "Made it," he finally said.

"We don't go on for another ten minutes," Ringo pointed out and John let out a groan. All that rushing for nothing. He put the guitar down on the floor and leaned against the wall. Looking down, he could see just how dirty he looked. He was covered in dirt and sweat and grime all over.

Why did he think falling asleep in a tree was a good idea again?

"Where's George?" Paul finally asked, catching John of guard. He didn't expect him to question about George's whereabouts.

"Oh, he, um," John floundered for a moment. "He went back to the flat. Wasn't feeling good," he lied. 

"I see," Paul said, but there was something stilted about his actions.

"Did you meet the Harrisons?"

"No," Paul said.

"Yeah," Ringo said at the same time. 

Their simultaneous yet contradictory responses told John something strange happened at the house.

"Alright, tell me what happened."

Something in Paul's expression changed and he uncrossed his legs. 

"She was very lovely and polite," Paul started, referring to whom John assumed to be Mrs. Harrison. "We made small talk," he vaguely answered.

"And we eventually asked her about her son and she started acting strange," Ringo said, picking up where Paul began to falter.

"How strange are we talking here?" John asked.

Ringo spoke up. "When we said that George was in the band, she got...  _ afraid. _ "

"...We left shortly after that," Paul finished.

"Afraid?"

"I don't know how to describe it. She just seemed really unnerved at the thought of seeing him. Mean, I don't want to jump to conclusions, but..." Ringo trailed.

"It's best George doesn't meet her, is what you're saying."

Ringo nodded.

"Let's just drop it. She doesn't want anything to do with him," Paul stated. "Let's just go and play this show."

John was taken aback by Paul's prudish behavior. He seemed so distant, and John could bet that his mind was full of thoughts about George. He honestly expected Paul to be more angry about John's complete disregard for his appearance or George's sudden absence, but he was just lost in thought. It was almost concerning. 

But, fortunately, they had played gigs so many times now that the entire process had become automatic. John would space out in the middle of shows and keep playing, muscle memory doing most of the work. There was nothing of interest to note during the show, aside from the older gentleman who had tripped and fell in the middle of the set.

John definitely didn't laugh out loud at that, no way. (Although, more surprising, Paul didn't react at all.)

By the time they were done, George was waiting for them, clearly inpatient from the way his leg was bouncing up and down. Upon seeing them, he jumped up and went straight to John. John just hoped Paul wouldn't call him out on his earlier lie.

"I thought you were going to the flat," John huffed, trying to pretend not to be flattered by his George's eagerness.

"I did, but I got bored waiting for you," he said before pulling up two keys. "I went to the locksmith like you asked, though," and John could see the two keys were perfectly identical.

Paul shuffled awkwardly before mumbling, "Hey George."

"Paul? You alright?" John asked. Paul was uncharacteristically nervous and subdued and it made John wary.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Paul said. "I was wondering if you'd let me steal George for tonight."

"Alright," George said without a second thought as he handed the two keys to John.

"No, no, you get to keep one," John muttered to George, forcing a key back into his hand. "What do you want Geo for anyway?"

"Just to talk, nothing important," Paul said as his gaze drifted to the floor.

"It's already pretty late," John slowly started. For some reason, he didn't want to leave Paul alone with George.

"John, let them talk for a bit. You'll be fine without George for one night," Ringo's voice called from behind. 

John twisted his neck to see Ringo lighting a cigarette. The words were slowly drifting in and out of his head. From the way Ringo spoke made it sound as if he was dependent on George. 

He scoffed. "George can do as he please," John grumbled, trying to fight the feeling of disappointment he felt as George walked over to Paul. He watched with animosity at Paul as he put an arm around George's shoulders and walked him towards the door.

"Don't worry, they'll be back tomorrow," Ringo said.

John choked. "Tomorrow?"

Ringo stepped back and blinked. "Oh you got it  _ bad. _ "

"Shut up," John spat out. "I just don't trust him with Paul. I only want him to be  _ safe. _ "

"Safe? You're sounding like his overprotective father," Ringo warned and John knew that he was right. "Just let them be, alright?"

John stared at the door the two had left out of earlier. Paul honestly wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose, and George wasn't a child who needed to be watched over. There should be no reason for concern, yet John's mind wouldn't stop wanting to go out and get George back. Paul  _ was  _ acting extremely suspicious, though. It wasn't too outlandish of John to suspect him.

A sudden thought occurred. "Does this have something to do with his family?" John asked.

Ringo didn't immediately reply.

"Ringo? Mate, you listening?"

"It might," Ringo slowly admitted. "Mean, we can't say for certain, but…"

"Come on, tell me what you two are up to," John demanded.

"We think she abandoned him, George's mum," he finally spoke, voice heavy. "She was acting all strange and our minds just went to the worst conclusion."

"You serious?"

Ringo nodded. "I want to say that that's not the case, but the way she reacted… Paul asked her a question about what happened, and she kicked us out."

John didn't say anything in response. 

"He's really shaken up by the whole thing. And he's been on the fence about Geo for a bit now, but now he wants to, well, get to know him better, I suppose."

"Can't blame him for that," John said to no one in particular.

"Yeah. Say, I'm gonna head home now," said Ringo as he started to leave.

"Alright. See you later," John quietly said. Soon it was just him standing in the tiny room backstage. 

He slowly walked back home, his mind wandering. He wanted to just skip to the day, fast-forwarding to the next time he would get to speak to Paul and George. Ringo had dropped a bombshell on him, and it made John wish things were simpler. He had assumed that George was born to raven parents, not humans. There was something inherently tragic about the thought of him being abandoned. He had said that he spent the majority of his life in the forest alone, but the fact that he was just seven years old made it all worse.

Of course, this was all theoretical. There was a chance that George wasn't related to the woman at all. Yet John had no way of knowing, for George never spoke of his childhood and John had never asked, naively assuming he was born a raven.

He didn't know what to feel right now, so he opted to go to bed instead. Perhaps a good night's rest would clear his head; it was all he could really hope for.

It was all he hoped for.


	25. Envelopes

_ Thump. _

John groggily tilted his head up to see George coming in, this time from the door instead of the window. He walked cautiously in the dark, making it over to the bed. John could see his silhouette in the dark and how George was slowly shedding his clothes. Then, George started to move towards the bed with John, but changed his mind and started to lower himself to the floor.

“Hey,” John said with a hoarse voice before clearing it. “You can come up here in the bed if you want.” To prove he was serious, he lifted up the covers to invite George. For a moment, neither of them moved. John could hear the faint ticking of his watch from the bedside table. Cautiously, George crept up next to the bed and crawled in next to John.

The blanket dropped over them and John could feel George’s body alter, skin shifting into feathers.

He gently pulled George closer to his chest. His newfound plumage just made him softer and warmer, something much appreciated with the weather getting colder and all. It was nice, being able to lay in bed, bundled up next to George. Soon, it was completely normal for the both of them to sleep together without question.

When they woke up, George would either be human again or quickly transform back. John had to laugh. See anything enough times and it loses its impact. To John, the miracle of George changing every night became routine, mundane, normal. And he found he enjoyed routine very much. He might have done the same things everyday,  _ but he enjoyed it.  _ He liked waking up with George and cooking breakfast. After what Ringo told him, it confirmed that George had never had home cooking. Not just eggs or beans, but genuine family meals. And although John wasn't a master chef, he was trying to make nicer food for the both of them. Something in his chest swelled when George hummed with delight after finishing.

That night Paul had talked to George about something, and although they weren't best friends, the lingering animosity was gone. Although, to be fair, Paul  _ did _ get extremely pissed when John had to beg him to let him borrow his guitar. He still agreed for the sanctity of the band, but he kept shooting angry glares at John and George from time to time.

They still played gigs as usual and still earned a meager wage. But that was slowly changing, for they were beginning to get popular. When John had first played at the Cavern, it was as a duo with Paul. They were a filler act, just something to fill the hours during lunch. But then they were able to convince Ringo to join them, and then George joined, and now people were lining up to see them. They stopped being opening acts and started becoming the main show. Their performances were advertised ahead of time, and lines were being formed. 

It was different, but a good kind of difference. Everything was finally coming up and John could say that leaving art college to be in a band was a good decision. There had always been doubt, it being the worst right before George joined, but now it was all dissipated.

How he wished everything could be like this forever. His life had become very comfortable, very…  _ domestic. _

It was an odd word to use, but it was true. In his daily habits, he had found stability. His flat turned from a garbage cheap room into a home. He had stopped crashing at Paul's and instead invited his friends over from time to time. 

And George was acclimating very well to the human lifestyle too. John could swear he was turning into a raven less and less. It used to be every night, but then it was every other night, then twice a week. There were no symptoms of his acute exhaustion and he seemed to be just as happy. 

He had also begun to learn how to read. John discovered that George learned through imitation, and that he could do most anything as long as he sees someone do it first. It's how he learned to play guitar, it's how he learned to write his signature, and it was how he was going to learn how to read. John had some simple magazines and comics for George to take a look at, but he was constantly interrupted by George whenever he came across a word he didn’t understand. 

“Hey John?” George’s voice called from the floor. “What does ‘Rend-dezz-vowse’ mean?”

“Rend-dezz-what?”

“This word,” he said, pointing at his page. John looked over to see what it was.

“It’s ‘rendezvous’,” John clarified.

“Oh, okay,” George said, satisfied with the answer. “What’s a rendezvous?”

“It’s, um, like when a bunch of people meet up at the same place, like, planned ahead of time.”

“So like how Brian wanted to talk to us today?”

John blinked. The cogs in his head slowly turned, processing what he was told. “Fuck,” he said. Brian  _ had  _ asked to meet up with everyone that afternoon.

He jumped up and practically dragged George out the door with him. The one thing Paul and Brian consistently critiqued John on was his punctuality. The only timepiece he owned was his watch, and it ran fifteen minutes late. He would always remind himself to find a clock and set it right, but he always forgot in the end. Nevermind the fact that George can’t even read an analog clock, it’s  _ John  _ who’s problematic.

Thankfully, George had reminded John early enough that they didn’t have to rush. Living with George had also made walking a lot more common. George loved to be outside and moving, and it let John save money on bus fares. It was nearing the end of October, but the weather was still nice. The Liverpool sun decided to grace them that day.

The two strolled into Brian's office, which was really the back room of his music store. Seeing all the records on sale made John lament the fact that he didn't own a record player of his own. If he asked nicely enough, he could probably take his aunt's, but he stubbornly wanted to be independent. He didn't know why, most likely wanting to prove he  _ could.  _

John pushed past the tempting shelves of records and straight into the back, George following like a shadow. 

They saw Brian hunched over at his desk, not even noticing the two entering. John took a deep breath and then shouted "Eppy!" at the top of his lungs.

He watched as Brian jolted in his seat, eyes wide with alarm.

"John!" he shouted with anger before softening at the sound of George's gentle laughter. "You two are early." He checked his watch. "An hour early, actually."

"I think your watch is an hour late," John said, trying to cover up the fact that his own watch was actually an hour and fifteen minutes late.

"Well, anyway, I guess I'll tell you both what's happening. But first," Brian handed them a white envelope each, "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

The envelopes were completely inconspicuous, no stamps or writing on them at all, and there was something slightly bulky inside them. 

Brian didn't tell them what was in the envelopes, which was a red flag. What were in them? Did George get busted for his thievery? Or, perhaps his secret was out? George was already tearing his open, but John felt nervous. Brian was watching them silently, the crook of his nose resting over his interlaced fingers.

John finally opened it in a burst of speed, just to get it over with.

And saw a neat stack of notes inside.

Brian tilted his head up to reveal a large smile hidden underneath his fingers. 

"Surprise," he said. John looked at him in shock.

"Fucker, getting me all scared like that," John grumbled, causing Brian to grin more. "Where'd all this come from, eh?"

"The single, what else?"

"The single released already?"

Brian looked at John with disbelief. "It's been out for a week!"

"No one told me that!"

" _ John, _ " he whined, "How do you not know these things? It's  _ your  _ band for crying out loud."

John huffed. "George, did you know the single was out?"

"Yeah. Seems you're the only one who didn't know."

"Shaddup," John grumbled. "And, ah, thanks for the money."

George then shoved his envelope towards John. "You can have mine," he said.

John pushed it back. "No, no, I can't take yours."

"Oh, alright," George replied, then handed it back to John. "Happy Birthday."

"George, I'm not gonna take your money."

"I'll take it back if you don't want it," Brian chimed in.

George moved to give it back and John swiped it from his hands.

"No, that's not going to happen," he muttered. He then put the two envelopes in his jacket pocket, already envisioning what he could spend it on.

"Well, anyway, that was the first order of business. There's another reason I called you here."

"Well then, get to the point already."

"I've arranged for the band to go to Hamburg."

For a second, all the blood in John's veins halted, making his skin itch.

"...what?"

"Hamburg, Germany. It'll be for fourteen days, starting November first."

"I don't remember agreeing to this," John spoke coldly. He did not want to go to Hamburg.

"It's about sixty pounds a week," Brian said, "Each."

As much as he didn't want to go, the money was tempting. John could live with the bare essentials, but the greedy part of him told him he needed the cash. Two weeks, sixty pounds a week, and living with George meant a total income of two hundred and forty pounds.

And besides, it would give him a reason to see Klaus and Astrid again, the only two people who he actually knew up there. Although he had spent a lot of time in that city, he couldn't honestly say that he looked back on it with fond memories. He just remembers being very terribly lonely.

He stopped. This wasn't the time to get stick reminiscing. He would be fine going to Hamburg. It would be short, and this time, he'd have George with him.

"Fine. Where are we going and what are we doing?"

"It's at the Star-Club, situated on Große Freiheit off the Reeperbahn, and it's three and a half hours each night."

"Got it. Geo, let's go," John said as he turned to leave. His mood had plummeted instantly, already dreading the residency. He didn't need to hear anymore details, already certain that Paul would fill him in.

"Thank you, Mr. Epstein," George politely said as he trailed after John. He left the back room to see John digging through the bins for records.

"John, are you okay?" George hesitantly asked. 

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to go to Hamburg," John stated. He pulled out several records, knowing exactly what he was going to spend his, no,  _ their _ newfound earnings on.

"Why not?" George simply asked.

John sighed. "It's cold," he opted to say, not wanting to go into depth. He wasn't in the mood to explain why. Not yet, at least.

He watched as George examined the records with curiosity, slowly reading the title and names on them. It was meaningless information to George at the moment, but that was going to change soon. 

"I'm going to buy a record player," John announced and then pointed straight at George. "Your music education starts now."

George didn't react much, but from the way he kept staring at the album covers, John knew his interest was piqued. 

And he could feel the divot in his mood disappear as the excitement for music overtook his consciousness. 

Yes, he still had to go to Germany, but this time, things would be better. He looked at George, who was pulling the records out of the sleeves and  _ sniffing _ them, of all things.

Yeah. Things would be better this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dad is making me listen to music from the 60s and 70s as my music education as well
> 
> He inevitably gets disappointed when he mentions a band and I dont recognize them.
> 
> Also I just noticed that this chapter puts the whole fic at exactly 36000 words! Not very important but still interesting.


	26. Records

Of all the purchases John made in his life, finally getting a proper record player was definitely a smart choice. He had bought some albums to start his collection: R&B, blues, rock and roll, some motown, mainly American music, you know,  _ the good stuff.  _ John would play music often and George would crouch over the record player and stare at it. Whether he was more engrossed in the sounds it made or its hypnotic spinning, John had no clue. All he knew was that George liked the record player and soon was asking John if he could put on something frequently. 

The record player itself was situated on the floor, for John had very little furniture in his tiny flat and nothing for the player to sit on. To the left was a stack of John's albums, or more specifically, the good albums. To the right was George's music, the weird stuff. George was a great guy, but even if he could read the title of records, he had no concept of genres or what made music good. All his records were from the bargain bin and covered a very diverse range of genres. John had been exposed to more jazz and flamenco and ragtime than he ever needed to. 

Right now, Handel's  _ Messiah  _ was playing, and John wanted nothing more than to take that record and fling it out the window. He could see it scatter into dust in his mind, punctuated by the Hallelujah chorus. 

He wanted to destroy it badly, but George had taken a liking to it, so it remained in the flat, taunting John. 

"Hey, Geo? When that's over, put on one of mine," John said. 

"Alright," George called back.

He turned back to the record player and resumed his listening. John appreciated the fact that he enjoyed music, but he wished the lad had better taste. Even his Aunt would think this music was a drag.

As the singing and strings died down, a hard and fast guitar riff took its place. As it rightfully should. John felt a sense of accomplishment when George got up to get his guitar to play along. John figured out quickly enough that he wasn't playing to practice or improve at all. It was like it was instinctual to him. Like how songbirds felt the urge to sing and chirp, so did George when it came to playing. If you asked him why, he wouldn't be able to articulate it in words.

And although John would like to have joined him, he couldn't. There was a slight complication he had to deal with first. 

They had to go to Hamburg, which was in Germany, which was a foreign country, which meant George needed a passport, which meant that they needed his birth certificate, which they most certainly did not have. 

In other words, unless they could magically conjure that piece of paper, the Hamburg trip was essentially shut down. 

"Ohhhhhh, what a shame!" John dramatically yelled. "Looks like you can't legally travel to another country, George. I'll have to phone Brian and tell him the trip's off."

But before he could go to the phone, he heard George loudly strum his guitar and start to sing.

_ If only there was some way, for me to get to Germanay~ _

_ If only somehow, this country I could get out~ _

_ If only I had wings, I could could fly across the sea~ _

_ If only John would remember, If only, If only… _

"Alright, I get it," John said, annoyed. He not only had forgotten that George was a bird, but no longer had an excuse to avoid Hamburg. Of all the things that slipped his mind, this was the most embarrassing. But regardless of George's words…

"The lyrics are shite, but the rhythm's good," John noted. It was remarkable how George was able to listen to all these artists and be able to synthesize their music. 

It was weird and different, but John would be lying if he said it wasn't good. His previous assessment was correct, George learned through imitation. He was able to I tuition the patterns in what he heard and rearrange them to make something new.

Regardless of his musical talent, the question of Hamburg still lingered. "Are you okay flying there on your own?" John asked.

"I can turn into a bird, John. If I can't fly there on me own, then I have a problem."

John nodded. George had a point: it was in his nature to fly like this.

But still…

"You could stay on the ferry as a bird. I just want you to stay close so you don't end up lost… over there." He wasn't going to say it to George, but he wanted to keep him near. They needed to stick together.

"Why'd you put it like that?" George asked. The question caught John off-guard and he didn't understand what he meant.

"Why'd you say 'over there' instead of 'Hamburg'?" George clarified.

"Cause I didn't want to say the name," John stated. "Cause I don't want to be there."

George looked at him expectantly, silently willing him to continue.

John sighed. He did not want to recount events, for Hamburg was a sore spot for him. 

He remembered travelling to the city with Paul, Pete, and Stu. Everything in the German city was big and exciting and John felt as though the entire world was opening for him. Suddenly, his junior skiffle group had graduated into a proper band, with John leading it. To him, Hamburg was a shining golden road with a successful future at the end. 

But for all the excitement he had upon arrival, it quickly diminished. First was the language barrier, which meant that doing  _ anything  _ was twice as difficult by default. 

I want a beer. 

_ Ich möchte ein Bier. _

Where's the toilet?

_ Wo ist die Toilette? _

Can you help me?

_ Können Sie mir helfen? _

He couldn't understand a word anyone said and neither could they. But it would be fine. He could still talk to his friends, and Koschmider had an interpreter. He didn't need to be able to communicate with others outside of that.

That's what he thought at least, but reality set in soon enough. Their sleeping quarters ended up being smaller than a closet, behind a porn cinema screen, and they had to bathe in a public restroom. 

But that was  _ fine.  _ Sure, the beds felt like wooden planks in disguise, but they were playing live shows every night, and the audience would yell out something in German, most likely an insult, and they would take it as a compliment and play harder. It was exciting. It was their future.

It wasn't until he was balls deep in some prossise before it finally hit him that this is his life now. Taking so many prellies you'd foam at the mouth, flailing wildly on stage, desperate to keep the attention of the patrons on you, then drinking and crashing just to wake up and do it all again the next day. 

Pete seemed content with their new lifestyle, as did Paul. Stu found companionship in the Exies, Astrid in particular, leaving John, alone, behind a porno screen. The only people who were interested in spending time with him were women who wanted his money. It was all so  _ shallow. _

He was hungry, dirty, tired, and lonely. There was no one around for him to talk to, just empty beds in a pitch blank room that echoed his darkest thoughts. Their room became claustrophobic, feeling smaller and colder every night he spent in it, reaching the point where he just couldn't sleep in there anymore. 

He was about to leave for home without telling the others when they got busted for arson, of all things. Their rooms had no light, so they had to use homemade candles to see. A rag, a napkin, or in this case, a condom. The tiny flickering light the rubber emitted was enough of a threat to burn down the stone building that the police were there. Within hours, they were on a train, Paul and Pete hissing about Koschmider while John sat in silence, thankful for an excuse to leave.

After that, Stu left the band, leaving it as just him, Paul, and Pete. Not surprising, as he was a painter, not a musician. They played without him for a few months, but then Pete left too, sensing the trio wasn't getting anywhere. He quit to do something that would actually bring in money, and John lamented that he should have done the same. After that, it was just Lennon-McCartney, and unlike John who was drained physically and mentally, Paul worked harder than before. He seemed to still see that golden road in his head and was invigorated to get to its destination.

He moved out, got a side-gig as an electrician (go figure) and was genuinely living a nice life. John, quickly followed, buying the cheapest flat he could find so that he could sit in a wooden room and pretend that he too was successful and happy. 

And after that, well, they kept playing. John had given up at art college and soon found that music was all he had left. He walked and played and travelled and played until two guys named Richard and Brian thought that he was good. Richard, or Ringo as he likes to be called, joined as a drummer, most likely out of pity, and Brian decided to be their manager. And then the four of them ran all over England looking for a record label that would give them a shot, with no luck whatsoever.

And he told this all to George. Once his mouth opened, the words spilled from his lips without end. He had never told anyone about his feelings regarding Hamburg until now, and his mind was begging for someone to confide in.

"And after that, we met you, and the rest is, well, history," John finished. 

He had been talking so long he hadn't noticed the record ending. 

George hadn't said a word during his entire spiel, but John knew he had been listening to every word. He suddenly felt faintly happy. Just having someone there who actively listened to him made him feel better.

He hadn't mentioned Stu's death at all, but he wasn't ready to tell George that yet. He would later, just not now.

"You can put on whatever you want," John said, pointing at the record player. "I'm gonna lay down,"

George nodded. "I got a new record yesterday," he said.

"Who is it?" John asked, referring to the artist.

"Greg Orian," George said, swapping the records. John listened intently. He didn't recognize the name Greg and wondered just what kind of music he made. It wasn't until John heard the droning noise of monks chanting that he realized it wasn't Greg Orian, but  _ Gregorian.  _ As in, Gregorian chant. 

John groaned. George was great, but if he kept putting on music like  _ this,  _ well… he was going to take all his music from before 1900 and burn them all in a glorious blaze of fire and fury. 

(Except for the 1700s sea shanties. Those can stay.)

He stretched out on the bed, hearing it squeak and groan under his weight. Maybe after Hamburg, he'd buy a bigger bed. Maybe a nicer flat, actually.

Yeah, that would be nice. Probably somewhere in London, with actual rooms and proper air-conditioning…

He couldn't help but feel excited. Maybe this time, Hamburg would go differently. Perhaps he would even have a good time...

For a moment, John felt as though that golden road was in front of him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooo check out that double meaning in the title  
> Records, as in music, but also records, as in history
> 
> I didn't plan that it just happened and I thought, "hey neat"


	27. Ferry

That morning, John watched with trepidation as George flew out the window. Within minutes of George leaving, John felt a pang of loneliness. He was going to have to lug both his and George's luggage, and he wouldn't be able to spend time with George on the way there.

It wasn't that he wanted to talk to George, it was that he didn't want him out of his sight. He had grown to be incredibly fond of the younger man, and he was happy that George agreed to stay close by. But now that George was out of sight, there was an anxious thought that he left John behind. He didn’t want to assume George duped him, but the paranoid corner of his thoughts kept telling him that he was abandoned. 

Regardless, John trudged on. He told Paul and Ringo that George left ahead of time, which was technically the truth, and the three set out on a bus. They would ride until they reached London, where they would then take a ferry to some German city and then another bus to Hamburg. John would have paid more attention to where they were going, but instead he let Paul remember for him. His band-mate was very punctual and responsible, listening to every word Brian said. Everyday, the band seemed to belong more to Paul, for he was constantly reminding John of dates and locations. It was great that John didn't have to actively remember that information, but Paul tended to be annoyingly nagging at times. 

With Paul coming along, Brian trusted the group to be able to complete their obligations in Hamburg without his supervision. It left him with some free time to manage some of his other bands, and he wished The Beatles the best of luck. 

As Paul and Ringo talked about their upcoming residency, John kept staring out the windows of the double-decker bus, looking for George. He saw no ravens soaring, making his worries more exaggerated. 

George wouldn’t actually leave him, would he?

Before he could answer his question, a voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"John!"

It was Paul, looking at John with a twinge of anger.

"What's up?"

"Were you even listening to a word I said?"

"I'm afraid I haven't," John honestly admitted.

"Probably too busy thinking about George," Ringo chimed in. 

"Was not," John huffed, painfully aware of his Ringo hit the nail on the head. "What'd you need to talk to me about, anyway?" he asked, changing the topic.

"Our sleeping arrangements, the set-list for our shows _ , _ " Paul said, emphasizing the last point. "I don't want to have to figure all this out five minutes before we have to do something."

John honestly couldn’t care less about the set-list, but he did want a say with who he was going to sleep with.

"I’m gonna sleep with Geo," John said, watching as Paul's face subtly shifted into a grimace. 

"Well, actually—"

"Cause I don't want to sleep with Ringo," John announced. "He snores."

"You could sleep with Paul," Ringo said, not offended by John's response.

"Yeah, just like old times! Like in Paris—"

"Yeah, Paris," Ringo replied.

John opened his mouth to say more, then closed it. Paul and Ringo were trying to rope John out of sleeping with George, but he wasn’t going to have it. He knew better than to argue, knowing George would want to be with him.

...Right?

"Well, then," Paul said, sensing that John didn’t want to discuss the topic anymore. "What about the setlist?"

"You know what? You can pick what we play."

Ringo snorted. "He already does that, John."

"Then he shouldn't have any trouble," John said before dropping the conversation and looking back out the window.

"It's fine, Richie," John heard Paul say, before his voice disappeared into the background. John didn't want to think about the upcoming days in Hamburg; Paul could do that for him. His job was to make sure George was okay.

Eventually, they reached their first destination, and quickly got a ride on the ferry. As John handed over his passport as well as money for the trip, he heard a familiar sound: the deep, guttural croaks of a raven soaring above him. 

John couldn't help the dumb smirk that appeared on his face. George's appearance brought him a simplistic kind of joy.

"Come on, John!" Paul called, wondering why he was staring at the sky.

"Yeah, I'm coming," John huffed as he walked onto the white boat. There were rows of benches, about half of them populated. In the corner of John's eye, he saw George perch on a handrail next to a boy and presumably his mother. The child was munching on a simple sandwich and John wondered if George would stop as low as to steal it from the boy's hands. To his surprise, George opened his beak and said, "Hello." 

"He talks!" the boy said in amazement.

John was amazed too; he didn't know that ravens could speak. 

(Well, George could talk, but not when he was a  _ bird! _ )

He kept watching as the boy slowly ripped off a corner of his sandwich and held it up to George. George then gingerly took the bite out of the boy's grasp and proceeded to eat it.

Paul then cleared his throat. "Ravens sure are smart," he commented. 

_ Oh, Paul,  _ John thought,  _ this raven is far smarter than you could imagine.  _ He was as intelligent as a human, but Paul didn't know that.

Anyway, John hadn’t packed any food for the trip and soon found that he wanted some free food as well. "Hey there!" John yelled from his seat. "Can I have a bite of your sandwich too?"

"Buy your own food!" the boy's mother sharply chided, angling away from John. George let out a series of caws that sounded more like a breathless laughter.

"Sorry, John, but it's not that impressive if a human asks for food compared to a bird," Paul chuckled.

"Ge— He didn't even ask for it!" John stammered, quickly noticing how he almost let out George's secret.

"Yeah, that's true," Paul said. "Still, he's very friendly for a raven. They usually don't live near people."

"And how do you know this?"

"I used to have a book about animals when I was a kid. My mum got it for me," Paul softly added. "It's really special that he's catching a ride on the ferry with us."

_ It's really special that he's also your band-mate, Paul. _

"Can you tell me more about ravens?" John asked.

"You couldn't care less about our set-list, but when I mention birds, now you want to talk?"

John flushed. "Yeah, of course." Maybe knowing some trivia would help him understand George better. "You got anything better to do?"

Paul sighed. "Yeah. Talking about what we’re gonna play, for example."

"Mmm, good luck with that," John said before getting up and leaving Paul. Ignoring his incredulous looks, John walked over to where George was perched.

Wordlessly, he began to stroke his silky, black feathers, marveling at the wonderful texture. 

"Better than being alone," he muttered. As a reaction, George jumped off of the handrail and began to fly in circles above the ship.

"You scared him off," Ringo's voice called.

John didn't have a response, instead watching George's silhouette across the sky.

He was already feeling restless and the boat hadn't even left the harbor yet.

It was going to be a long trip.

To pass the time, John stared out at the sea across the deck of the boat, but the novelty wore off quickly. There was nothing to stare at besides water. If he wasn't looking out across the endless expanse of blue, he was avoiding questions about George not being present on the boat and what the damn setlist was going to be. It was driving Paul up the wall with frustration, while Ringo resigned himself to the fact that John wasn't going to say anything. 

Personally, John was pretty sure Ringo was quiet due to seasickness. Poor lad looked green, for crying out loud.

The ferry was long and boring, wet and cold. Winds had picked up and the resulting chill forced John to have to sit next to Paul and Ringo for warmth. Worst part was, he had no food. George had snagged bites of meals from the other passengers, and had managed to grab a whole fish from the sea like a hawk. The act of hunting was impressive to watch, but John's stomach just growled as George gorged on the juicy fish. Here John was, shivering and hungry, while George was fed and warm, taking a nap in a pile of life-jackets.

The sun was edging down by the time they finally got off the ferry and onto another bus. It seemed that all they were going to do that day was sit and wait. And as the familiar streets of Hamburg rolled into view, John had to steel himself. The grey brick buildings looked and felt just as intimidating as ever. Before long, their destination, the Star Club, rolled into view. 

They met the owner, who communicated in broken English what they were going to do for the next fourteen days. They were to play a three and a half hour show everyday, starting at seven and ending half past ten. The payment would be fifty-three pounds, less than what Brian said, but they would have decent sleeping quarters upstairs. Take the key, don't lose it, and play your hearts out tomorrow. 

John trudged up the stairs as Paul helped Ringo move his drums. There was only one room, and John fully expected to see a dark closet with two bunks. The key turned in the lock, and when the door opened, John's scowl disappeared. 

The first thing to hit him was the light coming from the window. The room was stained pink from the setting sun, catching John off-guard. There were two large beds for sleeping and a small bathroom. Experimentally, John flipped the light switch, and marvelled at how the room grew brighter. It was amazing how something as simple as a light-bulb turning on eased John's worries. 

He dropped all of his and George's luggage to the floor and laid on the bed. Breathtaking. Their temporary beds were nicer than the one in John's flat.

John may have fallen asleep if not for the churning of his stomach. Both from hunger and from fear. George still hadn’t appeared in person.

"Do you know if George knows we’re here?”

“...He should,” John grumbled from the bed. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m just worried about him. I don’t want him to get lost or hurt,” Paul muttered, sounding genuinely sincere.

John laid there, wondering why Paul was so concerned for George.  _ Weren't they supposed to hate each other? _

Suddenly, the air in the room grew tense. 

"...I don't have any reason to hate George," Paul quietly said, and John realized with fear that he said his last thought out loud.

And before John could say anything else, Paul stood up. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said, going to the bathroom.

It left John and Ringo alone in the room. He didn't mean to say that out loud, but it just came out. The comment seemed to have genuinely hurt Paul's feelings, and any good-will John began to feel at the prospect of Hamburg evaporated.

"John… are you doing alright?"

"I don’t know," he quietly replied. "Why're you asking?"

"You've just been really distant today… and in general for that matter. We're worried about you, not just me and Paul, but Brian too."

"I'm fine," John said. "I just…" He didn't know how to finish that thought. "I guess I just want to be back in the flat with Geo, not here," he finally admitted. He felt confused. He wasn't homesick, per se, but he definitely yearned to be away. 

"It's okay," Ringo said. "I know Hamburg's stressful for you."

John nodded, letting the words sink in.

"Get some rest. You look like you need it. George’ll come here eventually,” Ringo reassured.

“Can you open the window for me?” John asked.

He heard Ringo move over and crack the window wide open.

"Ta, Richie," John replied, crawling under the covers of the bed.

He didn't know what Ringo thought of him, but he just wanted to rest for now. 

By the time John had snoozed off, Paul had returned, having taken a shower as he said he would. His gaze settled on John’s prone form.

"Are you worried about him?" Ringo asked, seeing Paul staring.

"Of course I am," he said, looking at the fully-clothed man in the bed. "It’s like he doesn’t care about the band at all."

“I thought you were gonna complain about him obsessing so much over George.”

“....They’re happy together,” Paul stated as fact, but his voice was still terse. “I can’t honestly say that they should be apart.”

“I get that, Paul, I really do,” Ringo said to Paul as he undressed. When he moved to open his luggage, he saw Paul still staring at John.

“Just let him be, yeah? I think he’s just stressed out about Hamburg.”

“I hope you’re right,” Paul finally said, breaking his gaze from John. “All I want is for this trip to go well. No surprises or anything, you know?”

“Yeah, same here.”

With that, the two left the room to get some dinner. 

By the time they came back, they would find George curled up tightly against John.


	28. Jam

It was the first official day of their residency. John had gotten a decent night's rest, and knowing that George was there with him made him feel better. Waking up and seeing the younger man next to him warmed him, along with the sunlight filtering through the window. Paul and Ringo didn't question how George got to their room in Hamburg, silently accepting the lad was a free spirit and went as he pleased. As long as he performed his obligations to the band, it didn’t matter what he did in his free-time.

According to John’s watch, it was eight in the morning when he woke up. Or seven, because his watch is one hour off. or maybe it was eight because of time-zones? Six? John had no clue. All he knew was that George was awake, hungry, and wanted to see the city. John didn't see the point; everything was made of grey bricks and reeked of beer. But he couldn't leave George alone and so dragged himself out of bed to accompany him. His mind told him that it was George who was keeping John company as they walked, however.

Paul, being punctual, and Ringo, being an insomniac, were both up and decided to tag along, wanting breakfast more than anything. A singular package of nuts on the ferry was nowhere near sufficient enough for the three of them. They bought a loaf of bread and a jar of blackberry preserves to tide them over, and were marching across the pavement. Paul and Ringo walked next to each other, chatting about the city and sights in front of them, John trailing behind, hands shoved in his pockets. George was running all over, looking through windows and climbing on lampposts, running his calloused hands on every available surface.

"He really is just like a kid," John heard Paul say. 

_ Just like a kid, _ the voice echoed. He kept staring at George's receding form, pondering the words. 

If George was like a kid, then John would do his best to protect him. It was the least he could do.

With a newfound resolve, John pushed past Paul and Ringo to catch up with George.

"What're you so blasted happy about?" he casually asked.

"I've never been in Hamburg before," George replied. "Mean, I've been here before, but not actually  _ in  _ the city."

"You've only seen Hamburg from rooftops, I bet," John said and George nodded. "We got a lot of time before our show, so if there's anything you want to do..."

"I want to pee," George said, and John had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Of course you can take a piss, just after we get back to the room."

He watched as George continued to stroll jovially. There wasn't a single worry in the lad's mind, and his raw optimism had overflowed into John. George's arms were swinging by his sides, hands open and exposed. John began to step so that he was in sync with George, letting his own hand brush against George's. Once, accidental and faint. The second time, longer and more deliberate. And finally, knowing that George wasn't flinching from his touch, put his hand to George's and let it stay.

John enclosed his fingers, officially making it known: he was holding George's hand.

It was so simple, so childish, but John felt giddy. It was like when he was in primary school and held a girl's hand for the first time. 'Cause back then when you were that young, it was the equivalent of saying you would marry that girl. Here he was, declaring to the world, or at least the pedestrians on the street, that he liked George.

John didn't know if he loved George, or if he wanted to marry George, or if George even reciprocated any of his feelings, but did it matter? Right now, right here, he was happy. He was—

A sharp cough broke his train of thought.

It was Paul. "We should head back," he said. "Don't want to get lost."

His logic was sound, but the way he was staring at the junction of John and George's hands made John squirm. He suddenly felt like a worm under a magnifying glass.

Then, the corners of Paul's mouth quirked up, while his eyes tilted down. It was a smile, but a very somber one.

"Yeah," John found himself saying. "Let's go back."

Once they arrived at the room, they all had jam sandwiches for breakfast. George had innocently asked if he could have more of the preserves after he ate. Paul mindlessly agreed but surely regretted it when George dipped his fingers into the jar, sensually licked them, then plunged his saliva-coated hands back into the jar.

"George..." Paul groaned as he grimaced at the tainted jelly. "You can't— That's not..." He was at a loss for words. "I'll buy some more later," Paul finally said.

"Can you get apricot this time?" John called while pondering if he would ever eat the spit-infused jam.

The answer: yeah, he probably would.

As John was wondering what George's spit would taste like, he heard low bass notes.

"The show's not for a while, Macca," John commented.

"Yeah but neither you nor George know what we're playing. George, get out your guitar," Paul ordered, and John watched with a flash of hot anger at how George obeyed. 

"John, you too."

He groaned, but still did as he was told. He had to at this point, and although he tried to pretend it was all a terrible drag, he had become more energized after playing with Paul and George.

He liked music, and he liked the band. There was a sense of shame when it finally set in just how annoyed Paul was with him. They haven't written a song together in a while, and playing really had become a job for money.  _ That wasn't right, that's not how it's supposed to be. _

After an hour of practice and squaring down their set-list, George put down his guitar to eat the pulverized fruit in the jar, and John leaned back onto the bed and caught sight of Ringo.

"Bet you feel left out," he noted.

Ringo smiled. "The opposite, actually. I'm right in," he said, ruffling George's hair. The lad hummed in appreciation. "This is really nice, y'know, just the four of us hanging out,"

"Yeah," Paul said. "It really is nice." Although his words were of agreement, they were tinged with sadness. "The last time we were all together was for your birthday."

On the surface, that was a lie. They had been together to play shows, sign autographs, do interviews, and so on. But Paul's words were referring to the time they spent outside of obligation. John hadn't realized it, but he had spent the past three weeks locked in his flat with George.

He felt odd, guilty. Paul's mournful gazes at him and resigned sighs, they were a message to John.  _ Yes, spending time with George is okay, but please don't forget the rest of us. There's more people in the world than just you and him.  _

_ Shut up,  _ he mentally begged. He can spend his time with whomever he damn well pleases.

* * *

Speaking of spending time with others, a familiar face popped up in the crowd during their show. George had just finished a blisteringly hot solo, and Paul was shouting into the mic. John saw the man weave through the crowd to reach the sides, closer to the stage, but further from the bulk of the crowd. The dim lights of the club failed to illuminate him much, but John could recognize his features. Even without glasses, he saw his messy hair cascade over his eyebrows, his fine cheekbones, and the shadow made by the small cleft in his chin. 

It was his intense gaze at John and his band-mates that revealed the identity of the newcomer. But before John could wave or react to his appearance, George's body jerked with energy as he forced another solo into the song. It was feral and completely unexpected. Paul's eyes widened as he stepped back from the mic, curious and a little scared to see what he was doing. George was attacking his strings with fervor, and if he was more aggressive, they would have snapped. It was as if the boy was possessed, playing something John had never heard before that was like a beast roaring and screaming. It was brutal and ugly and  _ breathtaking.  _

Only George could have made his guitar wail like that, only George.

The crowd stared in amazement at how the instrument had growled and John looked back at the man in the audience. He too was staring at George, but in his gaze was both a wild excitement… and fear.

Paul took back the vocals and finished the song as usual, but George had been pumped with a strange energy, and he stopped playing the songs and started  _ performing  _ them. 

Some of their set-list were tunes Paul had written when he was sixteen, and George was playing variations on the chords that turned what was old and simple into something new. 

George was composing on stage, and when John looked at his eyes, he felt a terrible unnerving.

There was a mad glint in them that he had never noticed before. 

By the time the show had ended, George's heart was pounding so hard John could hear it from across the room. His sudden burst of vitality had spread to Paul, who was drenched in sweat and grinning from ear to ear.

"You were fucking  _ brilliant! _ " Paul screamed as soon as they were off. "George, that was completely— absolutely— just pure magic!" he said.

Before John could even think about how Paul had never said something like that to him before, a presence joined them in the room.

John saw the mop of greasy brown hair and the fragile crest of his face and the little divot in his chin, all buried in a scarf too large for his neck.

"Klaus!" John shouted. "I thought that was you watching us!"

The man nervously shifted in place before sitting down. "I heard you were gonna play, so I made sure to come, but I didn't expect that—"

"It's George, our new guitarist," Paul said, huffing. "He was insane, wasn't he?"

"He was, better than you, John," Klaus said in agreement.

_ Ouch.  _ Klaus was right, but John didn't like the truth being shoved in his face.

"Yeah, he is. Where is he anyway?"

"I'm here," George said, but there was something different about his mannerisms. He looked wound up, like someone had shoved a key into his back and cranked as hard as they could. The mad glint was gone, but George looked like he was about to explode.

"Anyway, Klaus, this is George. George, this is Klaus. And I'm certain you've seen Ringo before—"

"I have," Klaus said, voice quiet. "Nice to meet the both of you."

Klaus's English had improved, but it was still heavily accented and clunky. Ringo gave a small wave before pulling the hyper George back to the stage to clean up their equipment. The two left and Klaus watched them go, eyes trained on George. It had been a long time since John had seen his friend, but something was off. It looked as though Klaus was infected with anxiety. The lad usually kept to himself, but he seemed genuinely nervous to be around John and the band.

He then muttered, “I can’t speak for long, I have a deadline coming up fast.”

“You always have a deadline, Klaus,” Paul said, gently laughing.

“Yes, but this one is very soon, and—”

“And let me guess,” John interrupted, “you’ve barely started?”

Klaus slowly nodded, ashamed. It made John glad he wasn’t in art school anymore.

“I can only wish you the best of luck,” Paul hummed. Klaus let out a small, thank you, and turned his attention towards John. John knew exactly what was going through his head:  _ Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you call Astrid? _

John hated the look in his eyes. "Where's Jürgen?" he asked instead.

"In Paris," Klaus replied, still looking straight at John.

John knew exactly where Jürgen was. It was just to build up the courage for his next question.

"Mm, and Astrid?"

"She's at her house."

"I'll see her tomorrow, John said, not running away, but not rushing into it.

“Yes, that’s good,” Klaus said. Then: "You're different now." It was an honest observation, even if it was sudden.

"Half the band's been—" John was about to say replaced, but that was the wrong word. Pete, maybe, but not Stu. He couldn't be replaced. "Half the band changed."

"Not just that," Klaus said. "You're wearing suits now! What happened to the leather? Rock 'n' roll?"

"Blame our manager, throws a fit if we wear jeans or any of that. Not good for our image, he says." 

"No, I see it. You look clean."

John didn't know if that should have been taken as a compliment or insult.

"Enough about us, how're you? Still drawing?"

At this point, the stage had been cleared and George rejoined the conversation, sitting down next to Klaus.

And then he slid next to the man so that their thighs were touching. 

"A-And painting and working. I, ah, work for a magazine now," he stuttered, clearly uncomfortable at George's sudden contact. He wasn't the only one. John felt very confused and angry seeing George so close to Klaus.

"You write in magazines?" George asked.

Klaus's nervous gaze finally looked at George. "No, I do graphics," he said and John had a feeling George didn't know what that meant.

"He makes art for the magazine, like the covers and stuff and organizes it."

George nodded.

"Yeah, he's an artist," Paul said. John just huffed, however. How would George know what art is? Animals in nature don't draw pictures for fun—

_ Animals don't sing songs or strum guitars, either. _

"So you, like, write songs but with pictures?" George asked.  _ What a strange way to describe art, _ John thought.

To his surprise, Klaus laughed. "Yes, that's exactly it. You understand?"

George nodded eagerly, the strange glint reappearing in his eyes.

"I heard you play," Klaus went on. "You were very good. You didn't think at all, you just...  _ played.  _ I know what that feeling is like."

"Like you need to play, or draw," George continued. “Like you can’t do anything else.”

"Yes, that feeling, you have to hold onto it, never let it go." 

John had no idea what had come over the two of them, but it was like they were speaking another language. He understood the words, but he felt there was another meaning to them beneath the surface. And the strange nervous aura that had possessed Klaus was gone, leaving him friendly and talkative. 

Suddenly, George craned his neck closer to Klaus and gently said, "I like you," before grasping his hand. 

Bile surged up in John. He thought that holding George's hand that morning was special, intimate, but here George was, doing the exact same thing with Klaus who he had known for a grand total of five minutes. Paul had that same sad smile on his face, but his eyes weren’t as droopy and his mouth wasn’t as happy as they were that morning. The two of them were chatting about music and art, but in that vague way that made everything sound like a metaphor. All John could think of was how any of George’s affection towards him was minor. He had known George for two months and he’s just as friendly with John as he is with Klaus.

They were still chatting, Paul butting in from time to time, but John couldn’t hear them at all.  _ Why did he feel so sick, so dizzy? _

He didn’t notice George and Klaus stopped talking until Klaus looked back at John, his deep eyes piercing John’s thoughts.

“It’s not just the clothes that changed,” Klaus said, staring at John intently. “It’s you.”

_ Of course I changed, Klaus. The John Lennon that first arrived in Hamburg two years ago had smouldered and burned out. And right now I’m pissed out of me mind that George is holding your hand. _

John fully expected him to comment on how his rebellious rocker facade was gone, but instead Klaus smiled.

“I noticed it while you were playing. You seem happier now. It’s like— what’s the word—  _ schwarmerei. _ ”

“Schwar-what?”

“It’s like,” he let out a small snort, “enthusiasm. Like a puppy,” he said with a silly grin.

“What did you just call me?!”

“Nothing!” Klaus shouted jumping up and away from John. “I have to leave now, goodbye John! Goodbye George! It was nice to know you!”

“It’s nice to get to know you, you kraut!” John yelled, but Klaus was already dashing out of the building.

“Bye Klaus!” George cheerily called.

“Bastard called me a puppy,” John grumbled.

“Isn’t that a good thing? I rather like puppies,” George said.

Ringo was desperately trying to hold in his laughter. “Me too. Although I think, personally, you’re more like a cat.”

“Oh, please, shut up.”

John looked through the doorway Klaus had left through. His gaze then drifted to George, who was still staring.

“Will we get to see Klaus again?” George simply asked.

John had to fight the urge to scream, “No!”

“...Maybe,” his voice finally spat out. He looked around. The buzz and adrenaline was fading from Paul’s face, and Ringo was boring holes into John.

“What’re you staring at?”

Ringo averted his gaze. “Nothing.”

Ringo started to move, and Paul trailed after him. 

George got up and followed, leaving John as the last one to exit. 


	29. Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter of CAW CAW, as well as the single longest single piece I had written at over 5k words. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy

By the third day of the residency, George was already whining about wanting to see Klaus.

True to Klaus’s word, he did have a massive dead-line hanging over him and couldn’t spare the time to see any more shows. But even so, John didn’t let George visit Klaus in their free time. 

“Why the  _ fuck  _ do you want to see him so bad?!” John finally snapped. 

George, oblivious to his rage, simply replied, “I really liked him.” Then, “He smelled nice.”

John grimaced at his response, but George didn’t notice, digging into a jar of apricot jam. 

It was only day three, and John already couldn’t wait to go home.

* * *

By the fourth day of the residency, George started acting odd.

Mean, he was always odd, having grown up as a raven and trying to fit into a human world, but this time it was out of the norm for George.

John wondered if it was some primal instinct kicking in, like a form of migration. George was very restless, constantly trying to get out of the room, out onto the streets. That burst of energy that consumed George during their first show had yet to dissipate, which was nice for Paul because he was playing better, but annoying to John. He knew it was George being a bird, being himself, but it was getting inconvenient. 

“John, can I go out?” George asked, like he was asking for his parents’ permission. The way he stood alert at the door made him look like a dog that needed to go.

“...George.” Paul’s voice called from across the room. “It’s like,” a pause, “three in the morning.”

“Yeah. And?”

John sighed. “George, come back in bed.”  _ Come back to me. _

At first, there was no movement in the shadows, and then George slowly crawled back to John. He slid in under the covers, back aligned with John’s chest. It was the perfect position to cuddle up and spoon him, and John had lifted his arm up to embrace George when his voice echoed in his mind.

_ I like you. _

John could see George’s face inches from Klaus’s and let his arm fall back down to his side.

_ George doesn’t like you that way, John. Don’t be so intimate with him. _

The familiar sick feeling of anxiety bloomed in John’s stomach. He closed his eyes, hoping to will that gnawing sensation in his gut away, but it wouldn’t. Only time or distraction could, and he was going to get neither lying awake in bed. But before he could shift in the bed to crawl into a fetal position to lessen the ache, George started scratching himself.

Scratching an itch should never be concerning. It was something everyone did, but when George did the ordinary, it always became somehow extraordinary.

The window’s blinds were not drawn closed, as per Ringo’s request. In the moonlight, John could see how George was getting at his itch, not with dulled, human nails, but with sharp raven talons. John could see how he was raking his claws across the small patch of flesh between his the right side of his neck and jawline. 

Not only that, but he heard it. It sounded like a razor blade being dragged across skin.

“What’s that sound?” Paul groggily asked, voice clearly expressing his frustration at not being able to sleep.

“Come on, Geo,” John whispered into his ear, grabbing the offending arm. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

George whimpered into the mattress, not struggling against John’s grip.

“It hurts,” George finally said before settling down.

What hurt? The itch? The way George’s nails were breaking the skin? Or was it an emotional hurt, not being able to go outside? Or was it that he couldn’t see Klaus again?

In an instant, John’s heart-rate ramped up but before John could think more, George flipped over and curled into John’s chest.

His heart settled and John stopped thinking, drifting off to sleep.

* * *

By the fifth day, John realized he had failed to see Astrid like he said he would. 

_ It’s fine,  _ he told himself. He would just see her later. But in the recesses of his brain, he knew he was going to avoid her. He was going to run away from the hard and painful truth that surrounded Stu.

...Was that why he hated seeing George so close to Klaus? Because it reminded him of how Stu spent less and less time with John after meeting Jürgen, Astrid, and Klaus? Of how pathetically lonely John became in Hamburg?

George suddenly hissed. He was putting on a suit, a simple action the average person does not hiss at. 

“George, what’s wrong?” Ringo asked as he walked over to where George was dressing. He then let out a strained, “Ahhh,  _ Geo... _ ” with a heavy voice. When John looked over, he could see why Ringo was so distraught. 

The skin all over George’s neck was bright red and irritated, and there was a large scab under his jawline.

“Son, you gotta curb that habit of yours,” Ringo said with concern. The skin must have been so raw that it burned when the collar of his shirt rubbed against it.

“Should we buy him a cream or something?” Paul whispered into John’s ear.

“I don’t think it’s his skin,” John uneasily started. 

“Maybe it’s the weather? It’s colder up here, his skin might be dry,” Paul said. A perfectly rational explanation, but it didn’t sit right with John. George’s affliction seemed to be more psychological in nature. 

“George,” Ringo’s voice called. “You gotta stop this.”

“But, it- it itches,” George complained, hand slowly snaking up to scratch at his scalp.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Ringo chided. George whined and Ringo kept telling him, “Please, Geo.”

“We have a show to get to,” Paul politely reminded them. “This… whatever it is, will have to wait.”

They left their room to play their fifth show, John catching glimpses of George’s aggressive scratching in between hamonies and solos.

* * *

On the seventh day, George had torn his skin open and was bleeding down the length of his neck for the second half of the show. It was only a small trickle, but it was treated like it was a mortal wound. After Paul and Ringo cooed all over him, they helped clean the self-inflicted injury and wrapped it up. 

Ignoring George’s acute nervous tic, Hamburg wasn’t at all what it was souped up to be. Paul noted that the crowds they were drawing in Liverpool were starting to get both larger and more interested in their music than in Hamburg.

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left for us here,” he observed, his statement completely accurate. The impressive pay for the gigs was temporarily forgotten in lieu of the stress in the group. George wouldn’t stop trying to rip his flesh to pieces, everytime John looked at George he felt jealousy inside anxiety inside hatred, Paul looked just so bored and sad and annoyed at it all, and Ringo…

Well, Ringo was Ringo. He just sat in the back, playing the drums, not asking any questions. He was the only person who was just normal.

This should have been an easy trip, but everything was just falling apart.

And so, John decided that today was the perfect day to go to the pub and unwind. 

It was an automatic decision in John’s mind, which was a mistake. If John thought about what he was going to do, then he would have realized the bar was a terrible place to go to. There were two main reasons why: George could not hold his liquor for anything, and both John and Paul were emotional messes and drinking was not going to remedy them.

They were currently situated in the Beer Bar, a bar that served beer. (That wasn’t it’s actual name, but John couldn’t care less what it was called; he couldn’t even pronounce it.) He was just tired, they all were, and wanted to drink to pass the time.

Before entering, however, John made a promise to himself. He wasn’t going to get upset, he wasn’t going to think about anyone or anything. Upon entering, he saw that George was picking at the bindings on his neck and Paul was already ordering drinks in broken German. 

No, he wasn’t going to get upset over anything.

At the very least, he was glad Paul and Ringo had accompanied them. They both had shagged some girls over the past few days, so John was happy they decided to spend their time with him instead of another lay. They weren’t really talking much, just sipping their drinks and soaking in the atmosphere. The entire place was horrendously filthy, and John was certain that the wet stain on the floor Paul nearly slipped on was rat piss.

George was downing his glass quickly, and already asking if he could get another. 

“How about this, I’ll get you a special drink instead,” Paul said, halfway down with his own glass. “And I’ll get some more for the rest of us.”

“Hold on, what’s this special drink?” John asked accusingly.

“A coke. I’ll be right back.”

It was a smart idea to wean George off of the beer and onto soda. When George saw his new glass, he was disappointed at the lack of foam, but was placated by the high sugar-content. 

Next round, John would get him fruit juice.

“This special drink is really nice,” George noted. “How come you guys aren’t getting it?”

“Not to my personal taste,” Paul said. That was a lie. Coke was his second favorite drink, right next to milk, of all things. 

“Same,” John echoed. A lie as well. He liked soda; he just wanted to get drunk now and forget that Klaus existed. And for a moment, it worked. John stole Ringo’s second drink for him and started to feel that familiar sensation of haziness set in. He was almost feeling good for a brief moment, but George shattered that illusion.

“Hey John?” he asked after a moment. “Why can’t I see Klaus?”

_ You’re not allowed to!  _ John wanted to scream.

"Why do you want to see him so bad?" John asked. They had this discussion before, but George was starting to get upset that he wasn't getting his way.

Paul huffed, asking "Why won't you let him just see Klaus?"

" 'Cause Klaus is busy," John gritted out.  _ Because I can't let George leave me for him. _

"He's allowed to see other people, y'know," Paul said, crossing his arms. "Klaus is your friend too. You can at least pay him a visit."

"I don't want to visit him, Paul—"

"That's fine, but you can still let George visit him," Paul said. "You don't get to decide who he can or can't see."

John huffed and took a long swig of beer. He knew George could talk to whoever he wanted, but John didn't want him to leave. All the while, George and Ringo stared at each other in silence. 

And then, Paul started to write on a napkin. “I remember where he lives,” he said to George. “You can visit him whenever you like.”

John watched as they exchanged the paper and then his rational mind turned off. Something automatic moved, and John reached across the table, grabbed George's drink, and practically threw it all over, ruining the napkin. It didn't even look remotely accidental, but John didn't care. The liquid poured onto the table, all over George and Paul’s hands and onto the floor. As John anticipated, the napkin was dissolving, the black ink getting smudged and warped.

There was a spark of joy lodged in John’s chest at the destruction. He took stock at the carnage he created, the way Paul was looking at his soaked sleeves, the continuous drip of the soda onto the floor, and the pulp that the napkin was reduced to. Ringo looked shocked and a little shaken and George— 

It was when John finally looked at George that he realized he made a gross mistake.

George’s face was set in stone, no readable expression visible. But his eyes, they were cold. They looked like two dark caverns on his face, not staring at John, but through him. It was that terrible glint from before, but now, it was concentrated, like a beam about to pierce John. He had seen the exact same look from George, when he told George he didn’t want him. He thought that things have changed since then, but… they hadn’t. George only humored John because he had saved his life two months ago. He didn’t actually care for John, he only pretended to do so out of obligation. Who the hell would actually want to be friends with John? When he’s such a  _ goddamn asshole?! _

George’s eyes narrowed when John hadn’t said anything, and that’s when John broke. He made a feeble excuse for the bathroom, because he just _couldn’t handle it._ George’s eyes, his frigid rage, scared him. He had truly and irrevocably _fucked up._

John locked himself in a filthy stall and sagged against the wall.

He did everything to stop George from going to see Klaus, because he was so afraid of being alone, of being left behind. And now, his efforts just pushed George further away than ever. 

Of course he wanted to be with Klaus. Why would George ever pick John over the polite, yet shy artist? 

_ Christ John, calm down,  _ he mentally begged.  _ It was just a glass of soda, goddammit, just apologize to him.  _

But the way George looked told him he wasn't mad about the drink, he was mad at John.

_ Just say you're sorry and move on. You can't just hide in the bathroom forever. _

Numbly, John unlocked the stall and wandered back out. The three were still seated, Paul trying to dry the table with napkins, and Ringo trying to help clean up George. All the while, George was scratching himself under his bandages. 

_ You can do this, John. Tell him you're sorry and promise not to do it again. _

He picked up his pace as he walked to the table, saying in a desperate voice, "I'm sor—"

John hadn't watched where he was going and accidentally bumped into another man, who started to shout at John loudly in German. He didn't want to deal with the angry patron, but the man's shouting only grew in volume. The man was large, and his bellowing soon caught the attention of John's bandmates.

"Piss off!" John screamed. He didn't have time to deal with this, he needed to talk to George—

But as he diverted his attention back to the table, he saw George standing up, his mouth moving. Ringo nodded and got up as well. They were leaving.

"Fuck, George!" John shouted, pushing past the man. "I'm sorry, Geo!" he shouted in desperation, but George only started to walk away faster. The cold winds outside stung John's face as he broke into a run, crossing in front of George and Ringo's path.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out as fast as he could. "I didn't mean to do that."

George stayed silent, eyes still cold.

It was Ringo who replied. "John, we know exactly what you were trying to do. Just… leave us be, yeah?" The two pushed past and kept walking, not even giving John a chance.

_ Who the hell in their right mind would? _

John sprinted out in front of them again. "Please, I'm sorry‐ I was—"

_ Scared. _

"—Jealous," he admitted. Ringo's eyebrows went up, surprised at John's honesty.

"I wanted to keep you close to me, because I—"

_ Love. _

"—I really care about you. I shouldn't have done that, George, I really— I wasn't thinking—"

"John," George interrupted, and John's heart froze in its frantic beating. "Stop. Just stop and go back to the room," he ordered.

Ringo looked in shock, but didn't dare speak. Both his and George's eyes were trained on John, but he was frozen in place. 

_ It's over,  _ his mind echoed.  _ You blew it, and now it's over. _

George matched onwards and John broke out of his reverie.

"Shit, George!" he shouted as he grabbed George's arm to pull him back. The instant his fingertips brushed George’s soaked sleeve, George grasped John’s arm so roughly it hurt with his deadly talons.

“Don’t  _ fucking touch me! _ ” he shrieked, fangs,  _ full monstrous fangs, _ bared. His claws were digging into John’s arm so much that it was drawing blood. George’s eyes were ablaze, and John genuinely feared for his life.

But no lethal blow came. Instead, Ringo’s hands were pulling John and George apart and he was whispering, “Guys,  _ please!  _ There’s someone following us,” he said, clearly nervous, although if it was at George's fury or whoever was following them, John couldn't tell.

Looking behind, he saw the person Ringo referred to. It was the same figure, that burly German man that he had bumped into earlier.

George let go of John’s arm and started to leave, walking away at a pace that forced John and Ringo to hustle to keep up. John dared to steal another peek and saw that the man had multiplied. There were now four of them, most likely his mates. The group of them must have been buzzed and bored, thinking that the angry little Englishman was the perfect outlet for their energy. The plodding of their footsteps only grew faster and louder and soon it was apparent that they were going to chase John down and beat him. John felt fear, and if the way Ringo's eyes were darting all over indicated anything, he did too. The only person who was oblivious to it all was George, stomping ahead in his own universe.

_ Probably a universe of hating John. _

The four brutes were nearing and John knew they were going to hurt the three of them if they didn't start running. 

"They're following us!" Ringo whispered. His voice was laced with panic but he kept walking calmly, as not to appear cowardly.

"Past this corner, we start running," John said. He didn't want to run, but he had no choice. John could handle himself in a fight, but Ringo couldn't. George probably could as well, but they were at a numbers disadvantage and John refused to let either of them get hurt. He already ruined enough, he can't add more pain.

George didn't reply, but John could tell what he was thinking. _ Always dragging us into your messes, Lennon. All you do is piss off those around you. Honestly, it would be best for everyone if you just went away and never bothered anyone again. _

The boots of one of the men skidded across the pavement and they all began to sprint at John.

George, with his slim build, was the fastest, already darting ahead and leaving John and Ringo behind.

John already had enough to deal with on his plate. Getting chased down was the hard-luck cherry in his misfortune sundae. 

Their legs were pumping as John pushed himself harder just to keep up with George. He knew George would rather be as far away as possible, but there was safety in numbers and John couldn't let Ringo be abandoned. It never occurred to him that he had to protect himself.

"George, we gotta stick together!" John shouted. If not for him, than for Ringo, who was starting to lag behind. He was never athletic or physically intimidating, and it was proved when the distance between him and George grew. 

" _ George, _ " Ringo wheezed, and George finally slowed, looking at the older man. Taking in the situation, John knew that if they kept running, the men would definitely catch up to Ringo and do something horrible to him. His own foolish decisions had led to them being in danger, and John couldn't accept that. He refused to let Ringo or George get hurt, so he decided that he was going to do what he had to.

He pushed George and Ringo ahead of him, saying, "Keep running!" before making a sharp right turn and sprinting across the street, dodging moving cars and weaving between parked ones. 

"Come and get me, you fucking nazis!" He screamed, "YOU FUCKING BASTARDS, LET'S GO!!" he screamed, as loudly as he could, flailing his arms. Anything to divert their attention from his bandmates. He screamed so roughly, that he had to gasp for air to continue his fleeing. 

Stealing a glance behind him, he saw that half the group began to chase him, and more importantly, leave George and Ringo. They would still be pursued by two, but two-on-two were safer odds than three-on-four. All he could do now was hope they wouldn't get hurt. 

And make sure John himself didn't die. 

He ran, throat running dry from how heavy his breath was. Whenever a turn came up, John took it. The sharp corners of the buildings would break line of sight for a few seconds. He kept running out into the streets, weaving and ducking and running and doing everything in his power to shake the two men. For a moment, he thought his efforts were working, but his ears told him differently. He didn't even need to look behind him, he could hear how their breaths and footfalls were growing in volume. These men were bulky and large and had enough endurance and stamina to outlast John. If he kept running, they would get him for certain. 

Another turn came up, and John took it into an alleyway. And then, his world paused. In front of him was a chain-link fence, reaching extremely high. It towered upwards, a severe warning to anyone who would dare try to bypass it. 

Adrenaline and alcohol pumped through John's blood, shrieking,  _ Don't think, just go!  _ and John ran straight at the fence. He jumped up onto it and scrambled up, all his horizontal momentum turning into energy directed upwards. His hands clawed at the fence as he went up, every muscle firing to get him to the top as fast as possible. It was the shortest time John had ever taken to get to the top of a fence, even with its massive height. But scaling the fence was one half of the escape. He had to get back down as well.

If John was thinking about his safety, he would have climbed down slowly and carefully. But instead, he jumped, doing all he could to get away. As he hefted his body over the top edge of the fence, his pant leg snagged on the open wiring at the top. But John was already falling down, and the snag whipped his body around. He was pulled back and slammed into the fence before the snag tore, causing John to fall all the way down. All of his weight bore down on his right calf at the wrong angle, and John felt it fold under the pressure. The calf and ankle bent, and sent John crashing down. 

Despite his injury, he didn't scream. He stood, weight on his other leg, and limped as quick as he could through the alley, diving out of sight. He fell to the ground and stayed as still as possible.

The fence rattled. Voices shouted in German. And then the sounds stopped and footsteps receded into nothing. John had shaken them.

_ But at what cost? _

His right calf ached, having absorbed the shock of his fall. Pulling up the torn pant leg, John saw how the snag had cut his leg, leaving a small line of cuts on his calf, but that wasn't what concerned him. It was the way the ankle was bent inwards, unmovable and distorted. As the panic and adrenaline wore off, the dull sensation of pain flooded John's senses. 

He pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned back onto the brick wall, huffing all the while. His ankle felt like it had  _ shattered,  _ and John had to use his hands to make it bend back in shape. The pain was sharp, but all John could do was think about George and Ringo. Did they get away? Are they okay? John didn't have time to sit around and worry, he had to make sure they were alright. He stood up to find them, before stepping onto his mangled foot and crashing back down onto the pavement. 

_ Shit.  _ He couldn't even walk anymore. The cold from the pavement stung across his cheek. He couldn't  _ walk  _ anymore, and George and Ringo could be getting their brains bashed in. 

A sob escaped his lips. Here he was, shivering in the cold when his friends could be  _ dying  _ and  _ there was nothing he could do about it. _

Why? Why is it that whenever anything in John's life was going right, he just had to fuck it all up? He spilled a single glass of soda and now he was trembling, crumpled up in a heap on the ground. 

His ragged breathing only grew worse, but John swore to himself he wasn't going to cry. He couldn't, not now.

Shakily, he rose up, using the wall as support. His ankle throbbed, but as long as he kept his weight off of it, he could walk. He began to move, very slowly, wandering down the pavement. In his haste to get away, John had ran in a random pattern, ensuring that he was lost. None of the street names were recognizable, and his environment was foreign too.

He was lost.

He kept limping, trying to remember what streets he had gone through, but nothing felt familiar. As time passed, the isolation began to set in. All John could think about was how he condemned his friends because he was a jealous prick. He deserved this, honestly. Wandering the winding streets of Hamburg with a busted ankle and no idea how to get back. Cars passed and signs flashed, but there was no one around. Looking at his watch, John saw the hour hand was pointing at one. Paul would be asleep by now, probably bundled up in the flat not even aware that his mates were in trouble. John had always been jealous of Paul's life, bu he had never envied Paul before more than now.

Nothing was familiar and now panic was beginning to set in. John was truly lost, and might have just given up if he hadn't scanned around him for any familiar landmarks.

As if someone had finally taken pity on him, John saw a grocery store. The very same one that Paul bought those small jars of preserves. He let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. His life was going to be saved because they bought food here before. He knew where the store was, and now he knew how to get back to the Reeperbahn. 

He shuffled along, faster than before, and soon enough, he saw it. The flashing lights and signs and music that told him he had made it back. In the club, up the stairs, and through the door to their room.

He was so tired, so wracked with guilt and pain that he didn't bother collecting himself. He just wanted to go to sleep and turn off every negative emotion. John wished he had a switch that would turn off his pain at the click of a button. He wished for a lot of things, but most of all, a chance to go back and slap past-him in the face. It's what he needed.

He fell onto the bed and closed his eyes. He was tired, so, so tired…

_ Click. _

"John, is that you? What's going on?" Paul's voice groggily called from the side of the bed. John hadn't even noticed he was in it.

"Shit, your leg!" he swore. "What happened?"

John took a shuddering breath.

"Paul, I—" he started before his voice broke. "I'm sorry," he croaked out, almost a sob.

Paul sat up and drew closer to John. "I fucking— George an' Ringo are gonna die an' it's all my fault," John whimpered. "An'- An' I'm gonna die alone an' there's no one to blame but me."

He let out a series of broken coughs, each one closer to choking than the last.

"I fucking ruin everything around me," he sobbed. 

"It's gonna be okay, Johnny, it's gonna be alright," Paul said, hand rubbing John's shoulder affectionately. "I'm gonna clean up your leg, alright?"

John gave a weak hum. "Paul...?" he croaked. 

"Hang on, I gotta get some ice," Paul replied, leaving John alone in the room.

John watched him leave, his mind screaming dark thoughts at him as soon as he was gone.

_ Look around you! George and Ringo aren't in the other bed, which means they're still out there! You ran away instead of fighting and now they're both probably hurt, their battered corpses waiting in an alleyway to die. All because you spilled a damn drink onto George. I thought you liked him, Lennon. I thought you said you wanted to take care of him and make sure nothing bad happened. Look at what you've done. You've made everything worse for everyone.  _

John felt tears prick at his eyes. He usually willed these dark thoughts away, but he deserved the berating. He should be punished for what he's done, he should be k—

"I'm back," Paul softly said as he opened the door. "John?"

"I'm here," he said and he knew Paul could hear in his voice that he was crying. 

"It's going to be alright," Paul said in a set voice. He then began to elevate John's swollen ankle and wrap it.

"Paul?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you put up with me?"

Paul didn't say anything, instead bundling the ice next to John's leg. "I suppose..." he began, "well, you are a bit of a bastard."

John felt his heart plummet more than he thought it could.

"You get angry or bitter and it's hard to be around you, but everyone gets angry and upset sometimes. It's that your heart is in the right place. You don't mean to hurt others... it just happens," Paul said, face hard to read. "...enough about that. What happened to your leg?"

"I fell," John honestly admitted. "We were getting chased, an' I had to lose 'em— I climbed this fence an' jumped off," John said, stopping to swallow the spit gathered in his mouth. "An' when I fell, my leg caught on the fence an'- an'—"

"Hey," Paul said. "It's gonna be okay—"

"No it's not! 'Cos George an' Ringo are  _ still out there! _ " he shrieked.

"John, Ringo came by earlier."

All of John's thoughts stopped.

"...what?"

"He came by earlier to grab his wallet. Y'know, if you hadn't come in, I wouldn't have known anything was wrong, actually."

Something in John's chest quieted. It hadn't even occurred to him that Ringo left the room again, or that there was no mention of George. The implications didn't dawn on John, just the fact that they weren't dead or injured. 

"They're okay," John muttered.

"Yeah… and John?"

"Mmhmm?"

"I wouldn't worry about George. I know you think it's the end, but he really cares about you," Paul said, then took a deep breath. "You remember when I talked to him?"

Yeah, John remembers that. He also remembers getting mad at Paul and wanting to keep George away. Funny how history repeats itself.

"He told me he really liked you. He wouldn't shut up, actually. Now, I might not be the best with relationships, but you'd have to be blind to not notice how much he thinks about you."

John felt oddly flattered by Paul's words. "I've always had shite eyesight, though," he said.

Paul chuckled. "Yeah, that's true. Listen, it was just a soda. I can't speak for what happened afterwards, but if you two really like being with each other, then it'll work out."

"An' if it doesn't?"

"Then you meet someone else and move on, I suppose," Paul finished. He couldn't read Paul's face or voice, but what he was saying was reaching John. The torrent of emotion he was feeling was starting to dissipate and calm itself.

Assured that John's foot was taken care of, Paul climbed back into bed, next to John. Then, subconsciously, John shuffled closer to Paul, their arms touching.

"Thanks, Paul," John said, voice hoarse. "I really mean it. Thanks for everything."

"Of course. We're friends, aren't we?" Paul rhetorically asked as he turned off the lamp. John had to be one of the luckiest people in the world to have someone like Paul by his side.  _ I can't keep doing this,  _ he thought.  _ I can't keep pushing everyone around me away.  _ He had so few friends as it was. 

John needed to apologize, properly make it up, and pray that George would give him a second chance. Because he  _ wanted  _ a second chance. 

_ I'm going to get better,  _ he swore.  _ I'm going to be better and never let this happen again.  _ It would take time for George to forgive him, if George even wanted to, but he was going to try.

With Paul by his side, John began to drift into a deep slumber, a tune weaving through his mind, his pain forgotten by his newfound resolve.


	30. Corvus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this one, I hope you enjoy

"YOU FUCKING BASTARDS, LET'S GO!!" John screamed from the top of his lungs, running at the four men chasing them and getting their attention. Ringo could see that two of them went after John, but two stayed to pursue Ringo and George.

While he appreciated that John was distracting two of them, it didn't change the fact that he was the one who got them into this mess in the first place. John had gotten jealous and decided the best way to cope was to lock George in a metaphorical box to keep him close. And now they were all going to get beaten up.

But nevermind all that, they needed to run first. As John's howling grew more distant, the space between Ringo and the two brutes behind him decreased.

"George, slow down!" he begged. He didn't want to get caught, and George was the only way he was going to make it out alive. But George didn't listen, just sprinting ahead. The lad was fast, and soon Ringo found himself falling to the ground. It was a simple trip, but they had caught up to him before he could stand up again.

" _ George! _ " he screamed as one of the figures loomed over him. He couldn't even make out the features on his face as he raised his foot to slam it down onto Ringo's skull.

Then, the man screamed in pain. George had come back, and punched the man in his abdomen, and Ringo could see how his sharpened nails had cut through his shirt and most likely into his flesh. George pulled his hand out, and Ringo saw five fine, dagger-like fingertips stained with blood.

George growled from the base of his throat and changed at the two men. For a moment, Ringo feared he was abandoned by George, but George had come back. Not only that, but he was ripping the two men apart. Ringo didn't know that George could fight like this, with such aggression and fervor. He looked like a wild animal trying to kill his prey, moving fast and without mercy. Ringo felt bad about not helping in the fight, but…

One of the men screamed in pain.

...George had it covered. He was doing well, almost too well. Ringo could only see vague silhouettes as George pushed them back further and further. Soon they were so far in the darkness that they couldn't be seen. Just the grunts and pants as they hit each other, hissing and gasping in pain. Ringo laid there in shock and fear. His place wasn't in that fight… it wasn't anywhere near this conflict. One of the figures collapsed to the ground, and from their heavy fall, Ringo deduced it was one of their attackers. 

Both men dwarfed George in size, yet the smaller lad held his ground. How fortunate was Ringo to have George on his side?

Suddenly, he heard a yelp of pain and knew from the pitch that it was George. As much as Ringo would like to say the situation was handled, it wasn't. He had to do something, he had to fight and help George. Ringo was a drummer, not a pugilist, but he ran towards the two figures locked in combat. 

As he ran, he saw the form of the larger man pick up George and hurl him towards a trash can. Garbage was strewn everywhere, and something in Ringo's head told him to pick up the glass bottle that fell out. He did so as George stood again and charged back at the man, but he was slower than before. Their attacker landed a sharp blow to George's abdomen, taking the air out of him, before slamming his head into the brick wall of the nearby buildings.

Ringo didn't know if he heard a distinctive cracking sound or not. All he knew was that he had a bottle in his hands and that the man's back was turned towards him. He reared up and brought the glass down upon the man's head as hard as he could, shattering it.

As the man fell, George looked up with a dazed look in his eyes. "...Ringo?"

"Yeah, I'm here, are you alright?" he asked, tilting George's head to see what the point of impact looked like. The man seemed to have been completely knocked out, so Ringo slowly tilted George's head to see the point of impact. 

The left side of his face was fine, but the right was red. There was blood on his temple and the skin was broken and scratched where it hit the brick wall. 

George was silent, and Ringo quickly realized something was horribly wrong. George's brain had probably gotten jostled around in his skull, and Ringo had no idea how to even begin to help. He knew at the very least that he didn't want George to pass out, afraid that should his eyes close, they may never open again.

"George, come on, you gotta stay awake for me," he pleaded, scanning the streets around him. There wasn't a phone in sight, and Ringo neither wanted to leave George took for one nor drag him along. 

Then, he heard a deep grunt. It was the man Ringo broke the bottle upside the head, and he was waking up. Ringo went to George's side and lifted him up, one hand pulling by his waist and the other holding his arm. When George sagged against Ringo, he knew something was very horribly wrong and he needed to get to a hospital now. They shuffled out of sight, in a vague direction towards the bar and closer to their room. He knew for a fact that moving George was an unwise decision, but he didn’t want to risk the other man finishing them off. Ringo had hoped that George would have been lucid enough to speak, or to even walk, but he couldn’t do either properly. He wasn’t speaking, just breathing heavily, and his feet were uncoordinated. The two of them stumbled and staggered about, Ringo desperately trying to keep George standing upright.

And then George stopped walking. His entire body fell limp as it collapsed to the ground, dragging Ringo down with it.

“George!” Ringo hastily whispered. “Are you alright?”

He had to hold George’s head up and waited for a response.

Finally, George replied. “J..ohn...” he moaned.

His voice was deathly quiet, and Ringo didn’t reply so he could hear his next words.

But George never finished what he was going to say, for his gaze grew distant before his body began to convulse. Ringo panicked, fearing that George was choking on his own spit. He didn’t know how to help George, or what to do. All he could do was sit in shock as George kept spasming, dying right before Ringo. He needed help. He needed to find someone. 

He just… wanted to play in a band. He never wanted to get wrapped up in all this drama. The only thing Ringo wanted was to play the drums and now he was getting chased by strangers and had to watch George die, all thanks to John. 

George’s body looked like it was crumpling in on itself, shrinking and fading. Ringo couldn’t call for help, for fear of giving away their location to their pursuers, and he couldn’t leave George alone either. His skin started to look grey, and all Ringo could do was sit on his ass like a fool. 

In the midst of his dread, he failed to see how George’s body was coated in fine black feathers, or how his skeleton was reforming to become smaller and much more compact. Ringo could only vaguely register what was happening, all of it just becoming too much to process. His mind just numbly repeated to itself,  _ Why did this have to happen? _

It took too long for Ringo to finally calm down. Unlike John, who grew violent and restless when stressed, Ringo just stopped functioning. By the time he could process everything that had happened, George was gone.

In his place was a massive raven.

Ringo bent down and gingerly picked up the bird, lifting it out of George's discarded clothes. 

He needed to go somewhere safe.

He cradled the bird close to his chest like a mother and her newborn. His feet shuffled forwards, one step after the other. Foreign streets winded in front of him, dark buildings creating ominous shapes. It was late, past midnight, and Ringo's legs were starting to get sore from all his walking. As he wandered, he looked down at the raven in his arms. 

Those silky, dark feathers reminded him of George's coarse, black locks. The raven even had scratch marks on the base of its neck, and a small stain of red on its forehead. 

There was only one possible explanation. George was a raven. Ringo didn't think any further than that, still slightly shaken.

He needed to find help. He didn't need to think anymore than that, so didn't.

It wasn't until his body stopped moving that he realized he was back at the Reeperbahn. He stepped forward, then stopped. Ringo didn't want to see Paul or John. He couldn't possibly explain what happened to George, and the thought of seeing John again made him feel ill.

_ A hotel,  _ he decided. He'd go back to the Star Club, get his wallet, and find a hotel to stay in for the night. 

He entered the club, went upstairs, and into the room. He saw Paul laying on the bed, and quietly grabbed his wallet and dashed out. Thankfully, Paul was asleep and couldn't question why Ringo was lugging around a bird. He quickly stepped out and back onto the streets.

Ringo ended up not at a hotel, but in front of Klaus's door. He was drifting around when he noticed that the street he was on was the same as the one Paul had written on the napkin. Even though he was more of a stranger to Klaus, he wanted to see a familiar face. Too much had happened and Ringo wanted to talk so someone about the madness he was enveloped in.

He knocked on Klaus's door, trying to ignore his guilt at waking him in the dead of night. The door to the flat opened, Klaus fully dressed.

The artist squinted in the dark, unable to tell who was at the door for a moment.

"K-Klaus? It's me, Ringo. Can I come in?"

Klaus blankly stared some more before nodding and closing the door to undo the latch. 

"Uh, yes, of course," he said in a small voice before gasping at the sight of the raven in Ringo's grasp.

"I didn’t know who else to go to," Ringo said. He could see Klaus's mouth was open. "We were chased, an' they hit Geo in the head, an' then he ch—"

“And then he changed into a raven,” Klaus finished.

Ringo stopped. “...How did you know?” he asked, suddenly realizing that something beyond him was happening.

Klaus nervously took the raven and quickly looked around the room for somewhere to put him. There were papers and canvases and supplies strewn all over the place, leaving very few clean surfaces. Ringo saw him throw something off of a chair before putting George down gently. He was whispering to the prone bird in German.

“Klaus?”

No reply.

“Do you know what’s happening?”

Klaus stood up and turned around to face Ringo.

“You look pale,” he suddenly announced. "I think I have something. For the pain," he clarified, pointing at Ringo's bruised side. He didn't even register the pain.

Ringo did feel a little dizzy and lightheaded, but before he could get a word out, Klaus was already digging through unorganized cabinets looking for medication. He was then filling a glass with water as his other hand clutched a small bottle.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight. I have work and won't be asleep." Klaus handed Ringo the glass as well as one small, white pill. Somewhere in the back of Ringo's head, he knew Klaus was trying to trick him somehow, but the promise of a clean bed and a good night's rest was too alluring. He had taken the pill and the gulp of water was soothing his parched throat. Klaus was steering him away from the raven in the chair and towards the bedroom and he found he didn't mind. Once his head hit the pillow, he crashed, unable to ask the questions he wanted to.

Last thing he remembered seeing was Klaus sitting back at his desk to work, but something was off. He didn't pick up his pencils or pens and instead turned the lights off. 

Maybe he just wanted to make sure Ringo got a proper rest. 

Yeah, that would make the most sense…

The night passed in a strange, slow haze. He was in a state of restlessness and exhaustion, wide-awake yet unable to move. The hands of the small clock on the night-stand kept jumping forward in small leaps every time he blinked. Sometimes, it would go backward, but it must have been his mind confusing things. There was a massive canvas on the wall next to the bed that was a mass of color and shape. It was a painting of a beast, its writhing flesh made out of animals with human limbs strewn in. It frightened Ringo to look at, and he'd wench his eyes closed but still see the same assaulting monstrosity in the dark underside of his eyelids.

Was he dying? This wasn't how his body normally felt. He was sweating under the thin covers as he tried to empty his mind to see nothing. He could feel goosebumps break out across his skin as he laid there in confusion.

His eyes couldn't see straight, and he felt uncomfortable in his own skin, like he was wrapped in tape and couldn't pull it off. 

But his ears were working fine and he heard things that confused him.

He heard the guttural croak of a raven, as well as flapping. He heard the scuttling of a small creature, like a squirrel or something. Then he heard a squeak and thought it was a mouse or rat instead.

He heard air conditioning and water flowing through pipes, and underneath it all, he heard voices.

**_You need to leave._ **

A short gasp of pain followed.

**_H-how… how did I get here?_ **

**_It doesn't matter. Listen to me._ **

There was some small shuffling.

**_You… you're not a human. You can't keep pretending to be one, because if you do, one day, you won't be able to change back._ **

**_Shu- Shaddup..! Don' tell me what I should… I make my own choices—_ **

**_Corvus, I've seen one of us die because this. And I don't want the same to happen to you. There's… too little of us left._ **

**_I don' care 'bout that, I jus' want to go back…_ **

**_Back? Look at you, you're bleeding! You're tearing apart your own skin._ **

**_Tha's nothin'...it'll heal..._ **

**_It won't if you keep pushing your body like this. Going back will cause you nothing but pain._ **

**_...I..._ **

**_I'm telling you this for your own good. Please, Corvus, listen to me._ **

After that, silence. But if it was due to the conversation ending or Ringo blacking out again, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that those words were important. He didn't understand all the talk of humans or whatever 'Corvus' was, but he committed it to memory. 

When his strange dreams passed, it was one in the afternoon. Ringo was awake and conscious, but getting out of bed was difficult. He saw the same painting that scared him last night, but it seemed friendlier in the daylight. When he finally got out of the bedroom, he saw Klaus at the stove.

He took in his surroundings, every inch of the space before him. It was colorful, that was for sure. Messy too. It was the space you would imagine a stereotypical artist would have. Canvases and papers were hung up on the walls, a neat line of pieces on one wall. He assumed those were for the magazine, and the rest was commercial work too. Although Ringo only gave them all passing glances, they looked very clean and striking. There was a table with multiple paint stains on it, as well as stacks of papers strewn about. The room was very chaotic, yet inspiring and creative. 

His gaze drifted past his professional work and onto the next wall, which had more personal work. He noticed amidst all the graphite and charcoal a few sketches of people. More specifically, of the band. There was John and Paul and himself and…

And George. 

Ringo looked at the chair in the corner and saw nothing.

"Klaus?" he asked in panic. "Where's George?"

Klaus turned off the stove. "...What do you mean?"

"George, the- the raven I had last night- where is he?"

"I don't know what you are talking about." Klaus said in response.

Something caught itself in Ringo's throat.

"You were really out of it when you came to my house," Klaus went on. "But I don't remember George or a rabbit."

"Not a rabbit- a raven, a..." he trailed. From Klaus's confused gaze,he realized how silly he must've sounded. George wasn't a raven and Ringo wondered why he ever thought he was. 

But he remembered George getting his head injured. If Ringo was here with Klaus, did that mean that he left his friend to die without knowing it?

Suddenly, Klaus's lunch didn't smell as nice and Ringo found himself collapsing into the chair.

Paul was going to kill him for losing their precious bandmate, and John was going to slaughter him for leaving George for dead like a coward. 

He didn't notice he was shaking until he was given a small cup with some hot tea inside. Klaus said nothing and resumed his cooking.

Although they were at a bar, Ringo didn't drink much at all, and he didn't get injured either. His dreams were scrambled, but he didn't think he had a fever or was sick. He was just grossly incompetent. That's all it was and he had no one to blame but himself. Yes, John had gotten them into trouble, but he didn't help anyone. If Ringo wasn't there, George would have gotten away without any injuries because he was fast and strong. 

Ringo held a hand up to his throbbing temple. He never functioned well when under stress, and now George might be dead and John might be dead too—

He took a deep breath and a slow sip of his drink. The tea tasted like salt.

"I have to go," Ringo said, standing up. He had to go and make things right, or at least own up to his failure. Klaus hadn't even said goodbye as Ringo left his house in a rush.

All he could think of was George and how it seemed certain he was gone for good.


	31. Search

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I want to apologize for the late update!
> 
> I don't have any plans to stop working on it, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

John didn't know what time it was when he was awoken by the sound of the door cracking open. The last handful of hours were spent in a half-lucid daze, not asleep anymore, but unable to get out of bed. He could feel Paul shuffle next to him and rise, crossing the room to the newcomer in the doorway.

"Hey! Are you alright?" Paul whispered. He must have thought John was still asleep, which was fine. John wanted to pretend to be unconscious; he couldn't possibly talk to Paul and Ringo now.

Ringo inhaled air to speak, but nothing came out.

"Richie?"

"I'm sorry," came Ringo's reply. "I lost Geo—"

"But what about you? Are  _ you  _ okay?" 

"Y-yeah, I'm not hurt, but..."

Paul let out a deep exhale, a sigh of relief. "Good… that's good," Paul muttered. If John opened his eyes, he would see how Paul was holding Ringo's shoulders, clutching him like he was physically holding him up. 

Ringo broke their intense eye contact. "I don't know what happened to George," he said, voice lowering, dripping with self-deprecation and guilt.

Paul glanced over at John's presumably unconscious body. 

"Paul, I don't know what to do—"

"Shh, shh, it'll be alright," Paul said. John had to strain to hear the rest over his own breathing.

"I'm gonna go talk to the manager, okay? I'll try to work something out, and while I'm doing that—"

He paused.

"—you're gonna look for George."

"But what if I fail? What then?" Ringo asked.

"I'll figure it out," Paul said. "You were the last person to see him, so if anyone has a chance of finding him, it'd be you," Paul reasoned. 

"What about John?"

"He'll be fine." John could hear Paul walk across the room, looking for something, most likely his keys or wallet. "Where did you go last night?"

Ringo didn't reply immediately, mentally preparing to give his answer.

"...I was at Klaus's," he finally admitted. John tried not to visibly grimace upon hearing him.

"Was George with you then?"

Again, Ringo paused before replying. "I thought he was, but I was wrong. I don't remember what happened," he said.

"Hey, everything's gonna work out," Paul told him, putting an arm around Ringo's shoulder. John heard the sound of the door opening again, before shutting closed.

"Shouldn't you leave a note for John?" Ringo's muffled voice called from outside the room.

"Don't worry about him right now, he needs time alone," Paul said assuredly.

And with that, their footsteps and voices receded down the hall before disappearing, telling John he was alone.

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts before sitting up in the bed. Looking down, he saw his mangled ankle, elevated and wrapped. From overhearing the conversation, one of his fears, Ringo getting harmed, was dispelled. Yet George's fate remained uncertain. John knew his ankle, although not broken or shattered like he thought, was sprained. It hurt like hell to walk, to put any pressure on it at all, but he had no other choice.

He had to look for George.

John got them all into this mess in a fit of spiteful jealousy, and now he had to fix it, set things right. He needed to apologize and pray that George was merciful enough to forgive him. It was the spot of hope that kept John going, because having to think about a potential future where George won't come back was terrifying. It stressed him out to no end, stealing his sleep and appetite. John had to find George, because if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to cope.

But that all left him with the sad reality of his ankle. With it wounded, John had very little hope of actually making it outside. He'd be able to make a block before his leg gave out. There was no other way around it.

But he had no choice.

He pulled himself out of bed, standing on his left foot and slowly lowered his right one down. The simple motion alone was enough to cause pain shooting up his leg, but it was manageable. He was able to stand, but could he walk? Would he be able to find George like this? 

His mind told him the answer was no, but John ignored it. 

He knew from what Ringo said that the last person who could have seen George was Klaus. So it was obvious what he had to do. Get outside, find Klaus, ask where George is, apologize. If all those steps took place, then things would be back to the way they were: not broken.

John had slept fully clothed, but Paul had the decency to remove his shoes and put them next to the bed. The left shoe was easy to put on, but the right…

He unwrapped his ankle and saw how red it was. The surrounding skin was pink in color, and the ankle itself was swollen and misshapen. When he slid on his sock, it sat oddly on the foot, and putting it into a shoe exacerbated his problems. It stung just to put on.

John walked out of the room, using the wall as support in lieu of his right ankle. As long as he had a wall, he mused, he could make it to where he needed to go. 

The stairs down proved to be a larger obstacle than he anticipated, but John wasn't going to be deterred. He made it down, awkwardly hopping onto one step at a time. Before long, he was in the streets, already noticing how late it was. He hadn't realized that it was past noon and almost two thirty. That left him about four hours to find George and fix  _ everything. _

As he limped across the pavement, John had to accept that he had to let go of the wall to cross the street. He knew where Klaus lived, but even taking the shortest route possible meant walking on his bad leg for far more than he should. Already, he wanted to stop. The pain had escalated from a dull ache to sharp jolts with every step. Soon, he was going to have to rest.

_ Stop complaining,  _ he mind chided him.  _ You brought this upon yourself. You can stop walking when George is back and safe. _

There was no use arguing because John knew his mind was right. With that, he pressed on.

Even after so much time, he knew Klaus's address laid in the recesses of his mind. All the while, he thought of what he was going to say to George.

_ I'm an idiot and an arsehole, please come back. _

No, that was too blunt, bordering on insincerity. 

_ I didn't want to see you leave me for Klaus. I know what I did was wrong, and I hope you'll forgive me. _

It sounded robotic, forced. 

_ I want to do everything in my power to get you to stay. _

No, that wasn't right either. John realized with every passing second, every hellish step, that George had no reason to forgive John.  _ He  _ wanted George back, but couldn't honestly imagine George agreeing. John ran through his lines in his head, but could only think of how George would scoff at the disingenuous words and storm off in silence.

Every step hurt, but now it was an emotional pain, not a physical one.

His mind flashed back to Paul's words last night.

_...if you two really like being with each other, then it'll work out. _

There was something about the way Paul phrased it that made John feel a little better. He mentally discarded his apologies in his head. If John was going to talk to George, then he had to be honest. The rest would lay in George's hands, but he wasn't going to try to deceive George. 

Of course, none of his sentiments would mean anything if he doesn't find where George had flown to. With a sense of determination hiding behind fear, he knocked gently on Klaus's door.

_ I don't have time to be subtle,  _ he thought and slammed his fist into the dark grey brick of a door Klaus lived behind.

Footsteps, then the clicking of a lock. The heavy door cracked open slightly, and a dishevelled Klaus peered behind it at John.

John could see the dark eye bags under Klaus's eyes. His hair was greasy and unkempt, but John doubted he looked any better either. He vaguely recognized how awful his grimy clothes from yesterday must have smelled.

"...John."

"Let me in," John ordered, not in the mood to waste any time with tact. Klaus seemed to get the message, and John had a feeling he knew exactly why he was here. The door opened and John purposely walked slowly, as to hide his limp.

Looking around the flat, he saw how it was the same messy space he had seen the last time he was over all those months ago.

"...Is it- is it just you?" Klaus asked, hands fidgeting with his scarf.

John nodded. 

"I know you are looking for George," he continued, voice taking on a harder edge.

"Where is he?" John asked, certain Klaus knew the answer.

"I told him… that being here would only cause him pain, and that he should leave."

John barely registered the words.

"I know you want him back, but you have to think about what's best for him."

John said nothing, merely nodding in return.

"You know that he doesn't belong in your world."

_ He's right,  _ his mind echoed. John knew it to be true. It should have been obvious from the beginning, John was a human, George a raven. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, they were simply incompatible creatures. John couldn't possibly hope to understand was it was like to be George, to be in the foreign world of humanity. 

_ Things were doomed from the start, weren't they? _

He wasn't patient or understanding enough to handle George. He was just a fool, so caught up in his own world he failed to account for George's feelings.

"Things will be better for both of you this way," Klaus said. At his words, something inside John shook. Would they be better? Logistically, the band would be without a guitarist, and the minimal progress they made lately would be for naught. But emotionally, John… liked George. He liked being around him, spending time with him. Thinking about losing George, his newfound friend and confidante, filled John with a sense of malaise that had yet to dissipate. 

And somewhere in his emotional turmoil, John latched on to an emotion that had been smothered: rage.

"How the hell," his voice croaked, "do you know what's best for him?"

Klaus's eyes widened at the shift in John's attitude.

"You've known him for less than a day, and you think you can tell him what's best?"

"John, you don't understand—"

"No,  _ you  _ don't understand!" John lunged at Klaus, the pain in his leg ignored. He grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him up to eye level.

"Where did he go?!" John shouted.

"I don't—"

"Where did you tell him to fly off to?!"

At this Klaus, ceased struggling in John's grip.

"You… what do you mean, fly?"

John had used that word because he knew that if George had left, it would have been as a raven, flying away. It was an error made in his anger, but the fact that Klaus reacted so strongly to that singular word told John volumes. 

"The fuck do you think?!" he yelled again, letting go of Klaus, watching as the man backed away. Klaus had a wild glint in his eyes and was staring John down, sizing him up.

"...You know." They both muttered the words at the same time at each other.  _ You know what he is. _

As the realization dawned on Klaus, his entire mannerism changed into a sort of primal fear.

" _ Oh Gott, _ you can't tell, you can't tell anyone,  _ please! _ " Klaus said, words spilling from his lips. "John, I— I can't—"

As Klaus scrambled in front of John, the realization dawned on him. Not only did Klaus know that George was a raven, he too could transform into an animal himself. There were more like him? Did he know why they could change? How they were born? There was a torrent of questions and Klaus was a vault of answers, b ut this wasn't about magical animal people. This was about George, and John had no time for questions.

"I haven't told anyone and I don't plan to," John said, voice eerily calm in the face of Klaus's panic. He was more confused as to why Klaus was so terrified.

"...Are you one too? A raven, like him?" John asked.

"No-no, I am…" Klaus paused.

"Klaus?"

"We can't stay human for too long," he said, dodging the question entirely. "Our bodies can't handle it." John knew exactly what he meant. The first time George shifted in front of him was from being human for a week, but…

"He's been getting better, he's been turning less and less and isn't worse for the wear," John said.

"If he keeps staying as a human, there will come a day where he can't change back. He might like being a human now, but I know that when he can't change anymore, he'll die."

"How do you know all this?"

"There was another, like us who couldn't turn back and wasted away. That's why I make sure I only go out when I need to, and why George has to go."

_ So that's why you stay holed up in your little home here,  _ John thought. He thought it was because of Klaus's nervous and introverted nature, but the explanation made sense. He always seemed odd and uncomfortable around people, but because he was an animal masquerading as a human. 

"I just… don't want him to die," Klaus said. It was not a selfish request, and John knew that his relationship with George wasn't as clear cut as he thought. If he asked George to come back, he would have to accept the responsibility of George's death. Could he? Could John, in good faith, let George come back at the cost of his own life? 

_ No. No one can make that decision for anyone. _

There was a moment of silence.

John was angry, but now? Knowing that George was gone and that coming back would kill him had dissipated any rage.

"...You're right," John admitted. "I'm… I'm sorry about barging in here, and yelling at you," he started. 

Klaus looked exhausted and didn't say anything at first.

"Your show."

"What?" John asked, wondering what he meant.

"Your show, at the club. Is it not soon?"

_ Shit.  _ John glanced at his watch to see that it read 5:56. He didn't know if his watch was accurate, aware it was off by an hour, but he didn't know if it was early or late. That meant that it could be minutes before their show at seven.

He didn't find George, and instead found that his friend couldn't even coexist with him. Even though the knowledge sat heavily in John's heart, his rational mind knew that he still had a show to play. John might be having the worst time of his life, but he's made a commitment to Paul and Ringo. 

John moved to dash out of the door, but his ankle protested. He almost fell to the floor, just catching himself in time. Klaus stared, wanting to help, but afraid that John would snap at him. 

In order to get back to the club, he simply had to take the path he used to get here, but in reverse. It was easy in principle, but difficult in practice. Hamburg was still a cold, unforgiving city that John would never be able to call his home.

Yet, he mused, nowhere else had he grown up more.

He just needed to get back to Paul and tell him that George was never going to come back. How could he, with his health at risk? There was no point to thinking about it. Nothing could justify wanting George to come back.

In the midst of his thoughts, John failed to notice the large brown rat that appeared in front of him until it shrieked at him. He thought it was a rat based on its size, but it looked more like a mouse. The creature hesitantly edged closer to John, its nose twitching.

Then the animal scurried off, leaving John more perplexed than anything. 

It was three more blocks of agonizingly slow hobbling before John made a stop. There was a phone booth in front of him, and there was a person John needed to call.

In the past, he would have left it to Paul to give Brian any bad news, but Paul wasn't here and John had to be fully honest. 

George wasn't coming back, and he was willing to let the band go if they couldn't get a replacement. 

And then a more cynical part of him told him that John should have never started a band. Stu wouldn't have died, and Paul, Ringo, and Brian wouldn't have been dragged into this mess. And George, John would have never met George and the both of them would have been happier living without the knowledge of each other.

John put in a quarter and was about to dial the familiar number when he heard scratching.

Looking outside, he saw the same mouse as before, holding something in between its teeth. When John saw what it was, he dropped the phone, letting it dangle. 

It was a single, long, black feather.

_ George. _

John stepped out of the booth and looked at the mouse.

His mouth was dry and he let out a strained "...Thanks." it was all he could say. The rodent gently placed the feather on the ground before scurrying away, John certain of its true identity.

Picking up the feather, he felt it's beautiful, silky texture. It was George's without a doubt. All this time, John was looking for George on the streets when he should have been looking up, at the rooftops. There were no birds in sight, but he couldn't be certain. It was sunset, and the darkness made it so that it was too late to spot a raven. George's black plumage made him impossible to spot now.

But Klaus wouldn't have given him the feather if he didn't want John to keep looking for George. 

John tried to keep walking, but it was apparent that his body was giving out. His swollen ankle, that  _ damned ankle,  _ had reached the limit of abuse it could take. John took one step, and a red hot pain seared. Another, and he collapsed to the ground in a heap. But he still kept moving. In his periphery, people passed him by on the pavement, not stopping to offer help. It didn't matter. John still had two working arms and a leg. He was going to keep moving, he was going to crawl across the sidewalk like an idiot if it was the last thing he did. He was going to—

"Hey, are you alright?" an accented, English voice called from behind. The voice sounded like it belonged to a young man.

"I'm as alright as I can be, given the circumstances," John replied, not looking at the man.

"Do you want me help?" the man offered.

"If you don't mind putting up with me," John said. He could feel the man reach over and insert himself under John's right arm, hoisting him up gently. John was slightly surprised at how his lean frame was able to handle John's weight without issue. 

"Now, how'd you get yourself into this mess?" he asked.

"By being a bloody moron," John replied, candid. 

"Yeah, you are," the man said, brutally honest. "But it's okay."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you mean well."

"It doesn't matter what my intentions are if all it does it hurt people," John snapped. "Why are you helping me anyway? Go away."

John noticed they stopped walking. "Do you want me to leave?" the man asked.

John found that he struggled to answer. "...No. I don't."

"Well then!" the man exclaimed. "'Cause I don't wanna leave either," he said. 

"What'd I do to get someone like you by me side?"

His companion chuckled in response, and they continued to saunter down the pavement. 

"Don't worry 'bout it too much, alright?"  John stayed silent, letting him continue. "You might be an arse at times, but deep down, you care. A lot," the young man said, looking John in the eyes. In those dark brown eyes, John could see just how sincere and genuine his words were.

"I'm sorry," was all John could say. "George, you... you shouldn't be with me," he said, the words tumbling from his lips.

George's expression didn't change.

"I don't care," he said. "I don't care if I'm a bird or not; I like being human... being with you. Even if you are a bloody idiot." John felt something inside him stir, admiration for George, and just how loyal he was. He didn't deserve George at all, but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain.

With that, the two moved on, walking ever closer to their destination.


	32. Dream

That day, Ringo had awoken from a daze in Klaus's home to find that George was missing. He had told Paul and was sent to search for his absent bandmate. Walking across the streets of Hamburg, he combed the city, desperately trying to retrace his steps. He found the same alley where George got injured, the exact same place his head got smashed against the wall, but there was nothing. Only a red stain marked the bricks, no remnants of the person it once belonged to.

He thought his day wouldn't get worse when he had to come back detached and empty-handed. But when he saw Paul frantically pacing outside, he knew something was wrong. 

"Ringo!" Paul shouted as he came over. There was a faint layer of sweat on his brow.

"Paul? What's wrong?" Ringo asked. The way Paul's face was set told him that whatever the matter was, it was grave.

"It's John," he said, and Ringo could easily conclude what the dire situation was.

"He's missing," Paul said, voice wavering as if he could barely believe it himself. It made no sense, considering his broken ankle. He could barely walk, where would he go, what would he do?

The sun had already gone below the horizon, and the gravity of the situation set in. Fortunately, Paul had negotiated for another band signed under the club to cover for them for the night. Even still, it was only for one night, and if the band wasn't together tomorrow, the gig was off. 

Paul and Ringo split up and searched, but there was no sign of John. There was only one possible reason for why he would leave, and that was to search for George. But as the minutes and hours passed, it dawned on them that they would have to give up. They didn't want to, but realistically, they couldn't wander all night looking for John. It wasn't until they got back that they found their bandmate. 

There was an officer next to John's unconscious body who began to speak, another man next to him translating.

_ I found him crawling across the pavement. Take him to a doctor tomorrow. _

And with that, the officer left, leaving Paul and Ringo with John.

"It's like—" Paul started, unsure of what to say. "He's like a magnet for disaster. The doctor came by earlier, said his leg might be infected." He looked across the room to where John was laying in bed, unconscious.

"I just don't know what to do anymore. We can't play anymore with George missing and John out of commission like this."

A heavy sigh came out of the receiver.

"Is there any hope of getting those two back at all?" Brian's voice asked.

"No, I doubt it," Paul said, resigned. He had to accept that the band couldn't play anymore, despite how much he wished for the opposite to be true. He held the phone closer to his ear, waiting for his manager to reply.

"Then we have no choice but to cancel," Brian said. "If John's injured, I'm assuming you'll stay in Hamburg while he heals up?"

"Yeah, that's our plan so far. Bri, I'm sorry."

Silence.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Paul. It's John and George who can't keep it together for the sake of the band," Brian said. "I should have seen this coming..."

"Yeah, cause they've fought and split up like this before," Paul muttered, mostly to himself. But if this was a case of history repeating, would that mean that George would come back again? 

A gasp came from across the room. Paul quickly snapped around to see John had thrown the blanket off of him and was drenched in sweat.

"P-paul..." he rasped. 

"I'll have to call later, John's awake," Paul said into the phone before hanging up and crossing the room to his ailing bandmate.

"I need to go," John said. "I have to find Ge—"

"You need to stay in bed," Paul said as gently as he could, trying not to scare John. His bandmate looked so scared and confused before his eyes focused on Paul. 

"Where's George?" was the first thing he asked. Paul sighed; he had answered this question three times already.

"He's missing, remember?"

John shook his head. "No, he's not," he moaned. "I saw him last night, he talked to me—"

"You didn't see him!" Paul shrieked, snspping. "You  _ fucking passed out! You—!"  _

_ You ruined everything. _

Paul shuddered. He wanted to say he prided himself at his ability to keep cool, but right now… he hated John. He hated how John couldn't handle his emotions and just pissed off everyone around him. He despised how John decided he'd rather flirt with some homeless freak than do his job, take care of his band. He  _ loathed  _ how John dragged down everyone for his petty drama, how he thought that  _ George  _ was more important than the band and everyone who cared about their success, more important than  _ Paul himself. _

_ "You're a fucking moron!"  _ Paul screamed, bound for the door. He couldn't stand being in the same room as that waste of air, and if no one stopped him, he may have done something worse to him.

Ringo watched as Paul stormed out in justified anger. It was impossible to say he was in the wrong for being angry. John was a fool, and there was no other way to put it.

John groaned as his eyes fluttered closed.

Everything was falling apart.

* * *

John knew what had happened. He knew his ankle was horribly wounded, even more so than before, but he didn't care. It didn't matter what the doctor said— George had come back to him that night. His leg wasn't infected and he didn't have a fever. He wasn't high off meds or so distraught that he couldn't think straight. He was John, he was here in bed, and he was waiting for George. 

His whole body felt like lead, however, his head felt light. It made his thoughts float around; his train of thought becoming like a pool of water. It was getting hard to have tangible thoughts. They were all becoming coherent at once, like every second was stacked on top of itself and stretched out. 

Was it normal? He didn't care. He was just existing, and that was all that mattered.

And so, he began to dream.

He dreamed of old memories. It began when he was very young, just him and his aunt and his uncle and his mother. It was all jumbled up, out of order, but he didn't mind. The scenes were getting stitched together in such a way that everyone was together and happy. He was never alone, even though two of them had left his life. He could see his uncle putting a radio in his room while his mother taught him how to play the banjo. They were sweet memories, but eventually they became twinged with darkness. Suddenly, his father, a man John can only remember from photographs, was there. He could hear screaming and shouting and saw a police officer talking to his aunt while the front of his car was covered in blood. 

John dreamed about the first time he met Paul. How he was angry at the thought of someone younger than him being more talented. He was so paranoid about being upstaged he insulted the boy, but Paul just smiled in return. He remembered them playing together, spending entire afternoons in each others' rooms, huddled over their guitars and practicing chords. They went to Paris and shared secrets. John used to really like Paul, feeling like they were the only two people in the world who understood each other. He wondered why they weren't as close now as they were then.  _ But he knew why. Paul had simply grown tired of having to babysit John through his tantrums. _

He dreamed about Stuart. How he dragged his poor friend along with him to Hamburg, made him buy a bass and join his band. They had fun, passing the nights playing their hearts out to drunks. Stu was someone he could talk to. He didn't mince words or smother everything with emotion. He was sharp and John liked that about him, until he started to hang out more with Astrid.  _ Until he found someone better than John. Someone who could offer the same banter with half the hatred. _

He dreamed about Cynthia. It was weird, seeing her again in his mind. They used to date, but just like everyone else, she left. She was pretty enough and very polite. Some might say she was boring or plain, but she had been able to tolerate John a lot more than others. They were at a party one night, and John could see another person talking to her. It was a tall guy, someone John had seen at their college, a sculptor he believed. He saw the taller classmate talk to Cyn and saw how she smiled back at his words.  _ Did she ever smile that brightly when talking to John? He decided that Cynthia must have not, and let the two converse through the night. A month later, John found out that they became friends and he soon broke up with Cyn.  _

He dreamed of George. He saw George wandering around his tiny flat, in his own little world. They slept together, huddled up far faster and far closer than he ever did with Cyn. John was cruel to George at first, not wanting the burden of having to care for another human being, but quickly warmed up. George saw something good inside John, and he definitely brought it out. He can't remember another person he thought more about, cared about. And… all John could hope was that George cared as well. He wanted to impress George. It didn't matter that he was a raven, or that he was weird in the context of human society. 

He liked George.

He cared about George.

He wanted George to be close.

He…

_...was never going to get what he wanted. He didn't deserve it. _

John slipped into a deeper state of mind, one of nothingness.

* * *

When he came to, he was still in his dreamlike trance. Except this time, instead of drifting through memories, he was seeing something new. 

It was George, sitting on the windowsill. It was dark in the room, but he knew it was George.

"Are you dying?" he asked.

John let out a breathless exhale. "I think I might be," he replied. When the doctor came over, Paul and Ringo were pacing all over the room due to nerves. Even if John didn't hear the diagnosis, he's been bedridden. Even so, he would recover. But mentally, he had no clue. 

"You look like someone left you out in the sun to dry," George said.  _ A withered husk, _ his mind supplied.

"You can't even stand anymore."

"No one wants to be with you."

"What's the point of going on anymore?"

John closed his eyes. He didn't like this dream anymore.

"Hey. Are you alright?" It was George, looking at him with a concerned expression.

And John had no idea how to respond. He had always replied yes, to constantly have that image of self-sustaining confidence, but right now… 

Right now, he wanted to tell George the truth.

"No," John rasped out. "'M not." He knew it would be out of character for George to laugh, but he expected it. Instead, he felt a body curl up next to him.

"George?"

"Shh..." he whispered. "You don't want to wake the others." John looked around to see two figures in the bed next to him. It was Paul and Ringo, and John was embarrassed how long it took him for the names to come to mind.

"George," he whispered. "I don't want you back out of pity."

"...Okay," George replied, not moving at all.

"George!"

"I don't pity you," George said calmly. "I'm just concerned. You look like you're ill."

"Don't want my death on your conscience?" John snapped back.

"I don't want to lose my only friend."

John stopped. In the midst of his self-hatred, he failed to notice how George clutched him tighter. It was impossible to tell, but he could almost see the wetness in George's eyes.

"Don't cry over me," John said. "Please don't— I'm not worth it—"

"But you  _ are! _ " George hissed. "You're the only person who cares about me— Everyone else sees me as a freak but you. So please stop putting yourself down— I don't want you to die—"

"I-I wasn't planning on dying! George, please—"

"Is it me?" George suddenly asked, and John felt his heart freeze.

"No, nonono— George, it was never you, it was all me—" John said, the words spilling from his lips. "You— you..." he was going to say,  _ You deserve someone better,  _ but he couldn't.

"I want you to stay with me," he said instead, grabbing George and holding him as tight as he could. He didn't want to ever let go. George felt still and heavy under John's touch, but he wasn't pulling away. Slowly, John felt two hands snake their way up his back, embracing John.

"I don't want to leave," George said. "I was happy with you, and I don't want that to change."

_ Was this a dream? Was this the broken remnants of his brain trying to piece together what he wanted? To be with George again? _

His head started to hurt, like a knife was lodged in the front. The sight of George before him began to get blurry, and he could feel his touch fade.

"George, don't go!" John shouted.

"I'm here!" George shouted back, his voice distant.

He was fading fast, and John realized he wanted to say one thing. Never before had he wanted to keep someone close. He needed George to stay, no matter what.

"I love you," John said before his entire world faded to black.

* * *

The next time he came to, he was alone with Ringo, who was busying himself by looking at the paper.

"...Paul's gone," Ringo muttered.

"Where's he gone to?" John asked, just following along. The lights were bright, the bed was hot. He wasn't moving at all, but felt like he was spinning.

"He left for home. He's on the ferry back to London right now."

"He's… gone?"

Ringo folded up the newspaper. There was no sound in the room.

"It's over," he said.

_ You lost your chance. _


	33. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy
> 
> Part of me just wants the have them kiss and end the story but the other part of me wants to pace it out so its as good as it can be
> 
> So I'm just gonna keep chugging along

_ Paul was gone,  _ he repeated in his head again. He had already said it to himself but the meaning of the words refused to come to him.

Paul hadn't left for the store, he was  _ gone.  _ He was on his way back home, and left John behind with Ringo to watch over him.

Paul wasn't interested in the band anymore.

A tremor overtook John's body. He felt like he was being drowned in his thoughts, all while Ringo watched from across the room. He could tell from the way his brow furrowed that Ringo was frustrated. Everyone probably hated John at that moment.

Well, almost everyone. There was still that one person he still believed in.

"Was George here last night?" he asked, needing to know if he saw George last night or if it was just a dream. Ringo seemed to not hear the question at all, staring at his magazine with the same disinterested gaze.

"...I'm here to make sure you get home safe. I won't go looking for George," Ringo's tense reply came.

Regardless, Ringo hadn't seen George and doubt began to crawl in. 

"I could have sworn I saw him last night—"

"That was a dream—" Ringo interrupted.

"Then where's George? If he didn't come here last night, that means you're the last person who saw 'im!" John shouted. He was tired of being separated from George and wasn't going to wait any longer. But Ringo floundered to answer, suddenly no longer stoic, but instead nervous.

"...we got split up," he said.

"Bullshit," John retorted. "I went to Klaus, and he said he told George to leave. An' you said that you didn't bring him to Klaus," John said. "So one of you is lying, and I know it's not Klaus!" He could see how Ringo's expression went from worry to confusion to some sort of grim understanding.

"Just tell me what happened!"  _ Stop lying!  _ his mind internally screamed.

Ringo cast his eyes down towards the floor. "John, I..." He took a deep breath. "I don't know what happened. I blacked out."

"There's no way in hell you managed to get George to Klaus while  _ blacked out! _ "

" _ Shut up, John! _ " Ringo bellowed, and John quickly shut up. It was hard to believe, Ringo, the most passive person John ever met was yelling. "Why don't you realize what's happening?! Paul's gone! George is gone! You just destroyed your band, why don't you care?" He was panting when the last words came out and John could only sit in shock and awe. 

"I'm sorry, but..." Ringo let out a heavy sigh, his voice back under control. "Don't you care about any of us? About anything?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but his throat clenched. Ringo's point was valid: throughout their stay in Hamburg, John hadn't helped anything. All he did was cause strife and pain for everyone.

"I just wish you told everyone you didn't care at all before letting us get in this deep," Ringo said. "It could've saved us a lot of trouble."

"I'm sorry," John's voice finally creaked out. "But I don't want it to end now," he muttered.

"Could've fooled me," Ringo spat out.

"God, fuck," John swore. "Richie… if you want to leave, I won't stop you. I just want to find George, make sure he's not hurt…" he trailed, "so I can say goodbye." Of all the things John didn't want to accept, he knew he was going to have to say goodbye to George, and never see him again. It was what was best for everyone. John would just have to go back to what life was like before they met—  _ it wouldn't be hard,  _ he tried to convince himself.

Ringo seemed placated. "Truth is, I didn't want to say what happened, 'cause I thought you'd beat me up if I said he turned into a bird," he said. "You'd say I was mad or something."

In the midst of John slowly drowning in his own mind, he heard those last words. 

"...you thought he turned into a raven?" John asked.

Ringo was about to reply when the words hit him. John had specifically said the word  _ raven _ , not  _ bird _ . For a moment, John's bandmate stood there, stuttering, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

"How'd you know what kind of bird he was?"

"What kind of bird he  _ is _ ," John corrected, sitting up. He could feel his confidence rise. "George is a raven."

"This is mad," Ringo said.

"It wasn't a dream, dammit! George can turn into a bird!"

"John, I don't think—"

"You know what you saw!  _ You've seen what he is! _ " John screamed. 

"...you're just making fun of me. That's what all this is, just some sick prank!"

"Come on, Rich, please. I couldn't fake a man turning into an animal. You saw it, didn't you? You saw him change!"

Something lodged itself in Ringo's throat, his breath hitching. 

"Listen. He's a raven. I don't know how or why, but it's true. An' Klaus was telling me about how if he stays human too long, he'll die an' I don't want him to die 'cause I lo… really care 'bout 'im," John said, words tumbling out. "An' you were the last person who saw 'im," he continued to ramble. "So if there's anyway to find 'im now, only you'd know— so please just tell me what happened—"

"John..." Ringo started. John could see the hesitation in his eyes. "You're not joking," he said, neither a question nor a statement.

"I'm not," John said, and Ringo slowly walked across the room, closer to John.

"He was fighting those two guys off that night," Ringo said. "And he took 'em out, but one of them slammed his head into the wall, and Geo stopped moving." He ran his hand through his hair shakily. "I honestly thought he was dead, and I was just holding him in shock and before I knew it, he was this big, black bird." Ringo looked at John's expression and when he saw no hints of humor or hatred, he continued. "I went back to the room for me wallet, cause I didn't want to risk seeing you," he muttered, slightly sheepish. "And I ended up at Klaus's. But I don't remember what happened after that, I think I was really tired, and still shaken up."

John listened with interest, but there was one aspect of the story he fixated on. If Ringo's story was true, then George seemed to have gotten a concussion and John could only imagine how well that would go. George, all alone, wandering the streets of Hamburg with a head injury. The thought alone made anxiety crawl up his spine.

"When Klaus told me I never came to his flat, I assumed I had some weird nightmare, but..."

"I guess Klaus didn't want you to know that he an' Geo are animals," John said.

"So he really is a raven?" Ringo asked, the truth being hard to accept.

"Yeah. I know it's hard to believe, but it's true."

Ringo looked down at his hands, not replying. They sat there in silence, Ringo processing the new knowledge and John not wanting to distract him. Finally, he spoke.

"I guess… that it all makes a bit of sense when you think about it. Mean, a raven wouldn't know how to read and write or wear clothes…" Ringo mused.

"Yeah, I had to teach him that stuff," John said.

"He doesn't really make a good human, but he is kind of bird-like, in the way he moves and all."

Listening to him, John couldn't help but smile. For a while now, he had to live with this secret, but now there was someone who knew. Yes, it was wrong to tell Ringo, but George was injured and potentially in danger. Besides that, John finally had another person he could talk to. Klaus knew as well, but he wasn't on John's side. He couldn't be trusted because he lied to Ringo, regardless of his motives.

"You gotta promise not to tell anyone else," John said. "You understand?"

"I won't," Ringo replied. "I'm just still digesting it all."

"I know it's a lot, but you have to look for George."

"Why me?" Ringo asked.

"Because I can't walk?"

"But—"

"There's no one else who can do it!" John exclaimed. "And I don't want to leave him alone in Germany!"

"But John… he won't come back to me," Ringo said. "I know he'll only come back to you."

John felt himself tense up. "What… what makes you so sure?"

"Paul said something before he left. He said that you, er, talked to George."

"So he did come—!"

"Paul thought you were talking in your sleep, but maybe… I just don't know, John."

And then it hit him. Paul must have heard his confession, and it was enough to send Paul over the edge.

He… loved George. It was hard to admit in his mind, the word feeling clunky and awkward, but it was how he felt. All he knew for certain right now was how grateful he was that Ringo was by his side. Most anyone else would have dismissed John's mad ramblings, but Ringo, even though plagued by doubt, didn't deny John. A part of him believed in John, even if he was skeptical, and he couldn't have asked for anything more.

"Thanks, Richie. For everything," John said. 

Ringo looked straight at John. "Don't worry about it. I'll help you find George, but you'll have to talk to him, alright?"

John nodded.

"Err… I'm gonna head out since you can't really walk—"

"Hey, Rich? Can you open the window for me, as wide as you can?" John asked.

"Are you sure? It's pretty cold outside."

"I'm certain," John replied, and he could see the gears in Ringo's head start to turn. The window was to let George in. He walked over to the window to slide it open, but struggled. It wasn't that it was stuck or heavy, but the lock had been tampered with. It was broken, most likely from someone opening the window with brute force. 

Eventually, it slid open and the cool air rushed into the room. "We'll have to leave tomorrow," Ringo said. "The owner's only giving you one day to rest up."  _ So if I don't find George… _

"That's fine," John said.

"You don't sound that upset."

"There's nothing I can do to change it, so there's no point worrying about it."

Ringo said goodbye and left, and when John was certain he was gone, he got up, picked up his guitar, and hobbled over to the window. 

He couldn't walk, but he could call out.

And so he called and cried.


	34. Bus

If Ringo had half a mind, he wouldn't have helped John. A rational man would have stopped him, and make John go home and give up any delusions of being with George. Because that was all it was, just delusions. 

At least, that's what Ringo thought before learning that George was a bird. Suddenly, it wasn't that John was having troubles with some stranger, it was him getting involved with some bizarre magical world far bigger than him. John's abrasive personality had caused issues, but it was honestly surprising to see the two so close. John was clearly obsessed over the raven lad, and George liked John plenty as well. It was miraculous, considering how different the two were. 

And so, Ringo marched on, eyes turned upward for George. As he left the club, he could hear the faint dingings of a guitar being tuned. 

_ John,  _ he thought.  _ He can't walk so he's gonna sing.  _

There was nothing to do but to march onward, or so he thought. The band was falling apart, but John now wanted to keep it together, and so did Ringo. On the surface, it was a decent gig, paid well and all. Ringo doubted he would ever get another job that he enjoyed as much, and he knew the same applied to John, having dropped out of art school. 

The fact of the matter was, there was a very good chance they wouldn't find George, so saving the band would have to be the next best thing.

He had to find Paul.

He ended up running a block before realizing he needed to take a bus to the harbor, where then he would have to pray the ferry Paul was on hadn't left yet.

On the ride there, he planned out what he needed to say. He wasn't going to ask Paul to come back for John, but for Ringo and a passion for music. He knew John had a steadily waning interest in music, but he was figuring it out. John was starting to articulate exactly what he wanted in life, and what he needed to do to get it. 

John needed to go through all of this someday, it was just unfortunate that he did it in Hamburg and not Liverpool.

That thought made Ringo somewhat melancholy. He had wanted to explore the city a bit, sightsee, but was so wrapped up in this drama that he couldn't. They would have to leave prematurely, and then somehow make it all up to Brian. 

There wasn't a lot to be happy about at that moment yet Ringo felt optimistic. All he had to do was convince everyone to give it a shot.

By the time he finally got to his destination, he thought for sure he was too late. He could feel the frigid wind hit him from the side along with the cold salty water from the sea. The boats were all lined up, the impressive steel crafts being prepared for departure. The only thing separating Ringo from the boats was a rope tied between wooden posts and a few feet of water. Walking down, he could see small benches loaded with people. Ringo could only imagine how miserable it would be to sit there in the open air, being assaulted by the weather.

But regardless, the boat had left already. He had checked his watch and knew he was too late. For a moment, he naively assumed that perhaps the bus would be faster, the boat slower, to allow him to talk to Paul. 

He was about to leave, give up, when he caught glance of a young man bundled up in a black coat looking downright miserable.

"Paul!" he yelled, grabbing the attention of his bandmate.

"Ringo? I thought you were staying and extra day," Paul said, his face flushed from the cold.

Ringo jogged over to where Paul was seated. "I thought you were leaving," he joked. Paul didn't laugh, but his lips pressed together, like he was trying to suppress a smile. 

"The boat got delayed, some kind of problem with the fuel," Paul explained and Ringo crossed over to sit next to his bandmate. "I'm guessing you want to talk about me staying."

"What gave it away?" Ringo asked.

"Just the complete lack of any luggage."

"Yeah… listen, I know you're upset at John, but I want to ask about the band."

"There's no band anymore, Rich."

"But Paul—"

"No! It's a sinking ship— and I'm getting off. I can't depend on John or George. You can't make me come back," Paul said. "Besides, you can't get refunds on the ticket."

"I'll pay for the ticket," Ringo said. 

"John should be the one paying for it."

"Listen, Paul, I just… I need this band, I can't do anything else— and I know you like this band and I know John likes it, and George does too."

"Well they certainly don't act like it. Rings, I have no reason to believe you. There's no proof that I'll come back and George won't leave and John will care about anything. I can't risk it," Paul said.

"I know," Ringo muttered. "And I can't say that we'll get back together and all this won't happen again." He took a deep breath. "But I think things will get better. I want to believe in John, and in all of us. All I can ask of you is that you trust me and give us a second chance." Even though they were surrounded by people, the space between Ringo and Paul was silent. Ringo had no other way of getting Paul to come back other than to ask for him to take a risk and forgive. He had laid out all his cards, as little as he had. And Paul just seemed to soak it all in, letting the words wash over him. Was it worth it? Did John deserve a second chance? And could Paul handle going through all the same strife as he had before?

Ringo saw Paul open his mouth to answer, before closing it and looking off into the distance. His eyes began to squint and then widen. 

Ringo heard the shouting before he could turn around.

_ "Du Hurensohn!"  _ a man yelled, wearing some kind of uniform, security perhaps. He was looking up at a strange huddled figure on one of the wooden posts. The guard grabbed the man and tried to pull him down, and in turn, the stranger began to hiss and growl like a wild dog.

"Oh  _ fuck _ ," Paul cursed. "Is that George?"

The two got off of their bench and drew closer to the commotion. To Ringo's horror, the strange man was indeed George, but, well…

He was covered in blood, for starters. A dark stain on his face, with brighter ones on his mouth and hands. His clothes were ruined, torn, and soaked and dropped around his shoulders was a ragged, black coat.

"George!" Ringo shouted as the guard threw him to the floor. Paul had jumped in front of the guard and began to plead:  _ Please sir, he's our friend, don't hurt him—  _ It was odd, considering how moments before he said how he couldn't trust George at all. Only Paul's sense of self-righteousness was acting at that moment.

They pulled George away, Paul being able to placate the guard. Ringo could feel George shake against his body, his arms clutching something. His shirt was torn in such a way that his shoulder blades were completely exposed, just under the thick coat.

"George, it's me, Ringo, remember?" George looked so afraid being closely surrounded by people and almost didn't recognize Ringo. For a moment, he thought the younger man was going to bolt with the way his eyes darted around.

"Hey, hey, George—" Ringo said as gently as he could, contrasted with the hammering of his heart. There were so many questions but he would get no answers if George got scared off. "Hey, you remember John?" he then asked, and watched as George's eyes locked with Ringo's. 

"What the hell is going on?" Paul demanded, but Ringo quickly told him to quiet. That small outburst alone was enough to make George tremble again.

"Shhh, it's going to be alright, okay George? John, he's back at the room, waiting for you. You wanna see him?"

George slowly nodded, seemingly incapable of speaking, all while Paul stared in shock and disgust. Agonizingly slowly, George began to stand, his arms unfolding and Ringo could see what he was holding. 

It was a large fish, a sturgeon. Suddenly, things began to click into place. George was in the headspace of a raven and came to the harbor for food.. The blood that coated George came from the fish, which must have been why the guard was so agitated. 

"Ringo…!" Paul whispered.

"God, Paul, this is insane—"

"What is?"

_ "He's a bird,"  _ Ringo said plainly, and closed his eyes in fear of Paul's reaction.

"He's a what?" Paul asked, having not heard Ringo clearly. 

"George is a raven," he repeated. He opened his eyes to see George quizzically look at him, not fully understanding the English words.

Paul seemed more confused than before, and soon started to turn angry. He was soon panting, breathing heavily through his nose. 

"Richard, what the  _ fuck— _ " Paul began, his voice taking on a sharp tone. George flinched at the volume and jumped back, and revealed that the black coat wasn't a coat at all. The ragged scraps of fabric clinging to it were feathers, it was all a pair of wings. 

"Jesus Christ—" Paul said. It may have been a mistake for Ringo to reveal George's secret, so quickly after learning it himself, but it was the fastest way to get the point across. George was shivering, injured, and completely dazed. There was no time for tact or pleasantries. 

George whimpered again, Ringo held up his hands to show he wasn't going to hurt him. It was like dealing with a wild animal, no sudden movements. All the while, he could only think about just how insane his life had become. A week ago, he was relaxing at home, the biggest worry on his mind being what he was going to have for lunch. Now, John was having a mental breakdown while Paul was walking out of the band, and did he mention George was a bird?

It read like it came out of a bad daydream, but Ringo didn't stop. Paul was most likely freaking out about the new information, so someone had to be calm. 

Eventually, George stopped panicking, although he was still panting, chest oscillating quickly. 

"...J-John?" he asked. It was the first spoken word Ringo heard from him, and it was awkward, like trying to speak in another language. 

It  _ was  _ another language, Ringo mentally slapped himself. George was in some bizarre half-human half-raven state, and ravens can't speak English. He could only imagine how confused Paul was—

Ringo looked around. Paul was absent, and out of sight.

He was glad he found both Paul and George, extremely lucky, in fact, but the two of them meeting together like that was unfortunate. At least he got one of his bandmates back, as George was hesitantly shuffling forward. His posture was hunched over, and after two steps, he stopped, used his shockingly powerful jaws to hold the massive fish, and continued forward on all fours.

Paul gagged. 

Ringo looked down to see that he had his suitcase and Hofner with him.

"Paul, I thought you were—"

"Leaving? Yeah, I know." A pause. "Seems I need to have a chat with John first," he said and Ringo did everything in his power not to smile.

They got on a bus, the driver giving George a dirty look but not saying anything. It was surreal, seeing George, young, quirky George, coated in blood and completely feral. George sat, or to be more accurate, perched in the seat next to Ringo, while Paul sat opposite them.

"Ringo," Paul said with a sigh, "can you please explain now?" His voice had no energy or mirth, so tired and resigned. He wasn't going to like the answer Ringo gave.

"I really don't know meself. I honestly found out this morning," Ringo admitted. Paul groaned in response.

"I know it's weird—"

"It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Paul mumbled.

"But I did see him change. And of course, he's got those giant wings right now," Ringo said, pointing at them. They looked filthy, feathers clumped together under a thin layer of salt crystals. "Brian would have a heart attack if he saw him like this," Ringo joked, trying to lighten the mood, but Paul didn't bite. Maybe it was the fact that George was mauling a fish right next to him. 

"I already called Brian and told him the band's done," Paul said.

Ringo said nothing in return.

"Shouldn't you be more upset about it?" Paul asked, brows heavily furrowed.

"It sounds like  _ you're  _ more upset about it than me," Ringo observed.

"I am!" Paul shouted. "After all this time, John just— just!"

He was interrupted by George dropping the half-devoured fish carcass onto the floor, punctuated by a wet flopping sound.

"This is so fucking insane," Paul said as George began to groom and preen his ruined wings.

"Don't get mad at Geo, please. He can't help it right now."

"He's… a bird…"

"He got his head smashed defending me, he did! You've spent time with him, you know he doesn't usually act like an animal!" Ringo argued.

"I mean—  _ Yeah,  _ but… it's just a lot."

Ringo nodded. He knew the words in Paul's mind that he wasn't going to say.

_ John had replaced Paul with a bird. Paul was second to an animal in John's eyes… John confessed his love to a raven before it ever occurred to him that Paul might have liked him. _

Ringo reached across and grabbed Paul's hand.

"I know it's a lot, but I really want to thank you for coming back," he said, looking directly into Paul's eyes.

"Ah, you're, umm, welcome," Paul nervously stuttered, getting flustered. "Y'know, when the ferry got delayed, I tried to be upset, but I was secretly relieved. I guess I was really just looking for an excuse to come back."

"I'm so glad—"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still pissed off at John," Paul quickly said. "But I really didn't want to leave the band."

"Are you still mad at George?" Ringo asked.

"Well, maybe if  _ someone  _ told me he was a pigeon—"

"Raven!" Ringo interrupted.

"Human," George said, no longer straightening out his feathers.

"Err… right," Paul said. Then, in a whisper, "John's got a lot of explaining to do."

Ringo agreed wholeheartedly.

"But, well, him being a bird changes things, y'know? Like, how? Why? There's a lot to unpack."

"Yeah, I was hoping John could tell me, er,  _ us _ more."

They spent the rest of the bus ride talking about the ludicrous situation they were tangled up in, and observing George. Yes, it was rude to stare, but he was impossible to take their eyes off him. 

The bud eventually reached their destination and the three shuffled out. Paul had his luggage heated over his shoulders, and George trailed after him like a lost duckling. Ringo was in the back, carrying the fish bones because he couldn't let them rot on the floor of a bus in good conscience.

They heard John before the club was in sight. A delicate melody was drifting through the air, arpeggiated notes, long and lost and winding. It sounded like a music box with how fragile it sounded.

George perked up at the noise as soon as John began to sing. In his muddled mind, he knew what John sounded like, and that John was comfort. He was safe. 

Ringo and Paul marveled at how George scaled the outside of the building, partially climbing, partially flying.

"So he really is a bird," Paul said. Seeing him fly cemented the truth. There was no doubt that remained in either of their minds.

George disappeared into the open window and the melody stopped.

" _ George! _ " they heard John exclaim. 

Ringo saw Paul had a wistful look on his face. 

"It's fine, I'm fine," he said. "They're happy, so I'm happy."

The open window slid close.


	35. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote a 2.5k chapter, uploaded it, doubted myself and deleted it, uploaded it again, deleted it again--  
> And then wrote a whole new chapter and uploaded it.
> 
> I'm sure glad I did, because the other chapter was depressing and too angsty.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!

John had played until his throat was hoarse and his fingertips ached. For him, he was at his lowest point and if it weren’t for Klaus showing him that raven feather, he would have given up. He was inches from the telephone, about to call Brian and Mimi. There was nothing else to do.

So when he saw that large black feather in the jaws of the mouse, he knew that the creature before him was Klaus, and that he was getting a second chance.

He kept playing, letting the strings ring out. He stuck them with more force than necessary, but he wanted the sound to carry out across the streets. Ringo was out there looking, and if John wasn’t a fool and overtaxed his ankle, then he could be out there with him. As it were, John was useless to everyone else.

In the midst of his clouded thoughts and muddled playing, he heard a scratching and flapping sound, but he dismissed it. He knew his own mind was not to be trusted anymore. Twice, he had dreams where he found George again and twice he woke up alone, only with the angry stares of Paul and Ringo.

“John?”

John looked up to see George, covered in blood, sweat, and grime; George, who had fangs and claws and ragged feathers littered over his skin like the quills of a porcupine.

“ _ George! _ ” he cried before jumping up to embrace him, his ankle forgotten. As he got up, it protested, sending John crashing to the floor, but George caught him and set him on the bed.

“You came back,” John said. “It’s really you—!”

But George just stared at him, with an indecipherable look on his face, eerily silent.

“No,” John said. “No, please don’t tell me this is a dream- George! Say something,” he begged.

“You’re crying,” George said and John brought a hand up to his cheek. He could feel a large tear trailing down.

There were many things John could have said, but he didn’t open his mouth. Instead, he reached forward and embraced George as hard as he could.

“I don’t ever want to lose you again,” John said. “George, I love you—” John cried. He couldn’t control himself anymore; there was only one thing in the universe he wanted. He wanted George and he wanted to hold him close and hug him and tell him how much he loves him and how much he wants to keep him safe.

Amidst his sobs, John only barely made out George’s reply.

“...too.”

“Wha- What?”

“I love you too,” George said. 

“This has got to be a dream,” John moaned as he pulled back from George. “You can’t be with me, Klaus said—”

“I don’t care what he says; I want to be here, with you. I don’t want to be alone anymore,” George said, and John could see how his eyes were glistening. “I’d rather die with you than live as a raven alone— ”

“You can’t be serious, you wouldn’t put your life at risk for me— ”

“I would!”

“ _ I won’t let myself believe you! _ ” John screamed. It was everything he wanted, so tantalizing and taunting, but he wouldn’t delude himself again. He couldn’t possibly handle closing his eyes only to open them and that George wasn’t there.

But he wanted to drink in the sight. John gently held George’s face in his hands, letting his eyes trail over every curve and contour. He looked at George’s sharp, angular cheekbones as he ran his thumbs over them. He stared at George’s eyes, how deep and dark they were.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re one of the most attractive people I’ve ever met.”

“John, what are you...”

“I’m remembering what you look like,” he said. “For when I wake up and you’re gone.”

“I’m not leaving,” George said.

“I… I can’t let you stay, I care about you too much to do that.”

“And I care too much about  _ you _ to go,” George said, and before John could protest anymore, he lunged forward. He forced John onto his back and put his arms on John’s shoulders. His hair cascaded over his back and into his face.

“George—”

But before John could say anymore, George lowered his body onto John’s, their faces inches apart. They laid like that, before John reached a hand behind George’s head and slowly brought themselves closer to each other, and letting their lips touch.

It was brief, and John’s mind caught up with him after the kiss was finished. There was something indescribable about it— John had never experienced anything like it. He felt electric and soon realized that he wanted to do it again. He held George and brought their bodies close together—

The second time, it was far more than just their lips making contact. It was a  _ kiss,  _ and as John’s heart raced, he saw how George’s eyes were fluttered closed, completely sucked into the moment. John could feel the weight of George’s body, the way his chest heaved as he breathed. There was no way it could be a dream, John felt too alive, he felt so, so much at that moment. They clutched each other closer until George pulled his head back.

John felt lightheaded, dizzy on account of all the blood that just rushed to his head. He was on cloud nine and wanted to keep going. He ran his fingers through George’s thick, dark locks, beckoning him, drawing him closer…

_ Click. _

They both pulled back and looked at the source of that noise: the door. Soon, it swung open, and Ringo came in.

“Hey—” he started, but John quickly interrupted him.

“P-Paul?!” Any other circumstance, John would have been overjoyed to see Paul back, but not right after he was kissing George!

He froze, the realization dawning on him.

_ I just kissed George. _

And then:

_ George kissed me back. _

_ Holy shit. _

“John, Paul knows,” Ringo said.

“We found your bird for yeh,” Paul added.

“Oh, th-thanks,” John mumbled before noticing splotches of red on Ringo’s shirt. “Why’re you all bloody?”

“George was eating a fish and was about to leave it on the bus,” Ringo lamented. “Surely you can smell it?”

John was about to comment, ‘ _No, I can’t,’_ before taking in a deep inhale. As Ringo said, George smelled of not only raw fish (gross) but also of the sea, salty and briny (pleasant). John must have been so full of ecstasy not to notice it while he was kissing— 

_ Kissing! _

_ — _ George.

His face was probably beet-red and stuck with a dopey grin. If he thought anymore about what just happened, he was going to start giggling like a schoolgirl. 

“I think you’re just making it up to cover up the fact that you stink,” John said, trying to deflect Ringo’s attention from the fish-smell emanating from his own mouth. 

“At least I smell better than you two,” Ringo said in an off-hand manner. John internally cringed and wondered if Ringo and Paul were connecting the dots. 

“Wait, you said he was eating a fish? Like, a raw one?”

“Yeah… It was really good,” George said. “I was going to save some for you, but I ate it all.” Although it was less romantic than their passionate kiss, it was still cute.

“I have to ask: what happened after you got split up from Ringo?” John asked.

George shrugged. “I was trying to get home, but I forgot where it was. And then, I couldn’t find you, but I remembered the docks, so I went there.”

“Do you… remember what happened before you got lost?”

“Yeah. I was mad at you,” he said, entirely blunt.

“Sorry, I was, uh, wasn’t thinking straight.”

“It’s okay,” George said. “You’re way nicer than Klaus anyway.”

John kept a stoic face but was internally doing cartwheels. If his ankle wasn’t sprained, he would have been doing somersaults all over the room.

“I’m just so glad you all are giving me a second chance,” John said.

“Don’t make us regret it,” Paul replied in a curt manner. Then, his eyes drifted from John’s flushed face to George’s equally disheveled appearance. He didn’t comment, instead putting his luggage down and laying on the other bed.

“So,” Paul began, “George is a bird.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” John replied. If Paul knew, and Ringo knew, then it meant that five people were now in on the secret. “You know, Rings, I asked you not to tell anyone.”

“To be fair, he had giant bird wings when we found him. I had to break my promise.”

“I guess, but now,  _ for real, _ you guys cannot tell a person.”

“Alright, I promise, scout’s honor and all,” Paul said. “I just want to know how this all came to be.”

John ran a hand through his hair. “None of us know,” he sighed. “George is just— ”  _~~amazing~~ _ “—the way he is. All I know is that being a human takes it out of him.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ringo asked.

“Well, it’s like— Do you remember that time we were in the studio and he puked his guts out?”

“Yeah, he was sick the whole week.”

“Mmhmm, he was pushing himself to not turn into a raven and ended up passing out,” John said. “He wasn’t breathing at all— I really thought he was dead.”

Ringo’s eyes lit up at the recounting. “I thought the same happened when that guy smashed his head in!”

“Do you think,” Paul began, “that he turns back as some sort of natural defense?”

Ringo nodded, and John looked down at George, wondering why he was so silent during a conversation about himself. To his surprise, George was asleep, arms clutching John’s midsection.

“I’m glad he’s back,” Ringo said. “And I’m glad you’re back too, Paul.”

“I didn’t want to leave in the first place— but  _ someone  _ had to be an arse about everything.”

“In my defense—” John began, before he realized he didn’t have anything to say.

“I rest my case,” Paul said, crossing his arms behind his head.

“Listen, Paul. I’m really just… fucking happy you came back. All of you. I mean it,” John said.

“Aye, I’m glad we’re back together,” Ringo said and Paul nodded.

John smiled and looked down at George’s sleeping form.

Right then, at that moment, John was the luckiest man on the planet.


	36. Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome back, and I hope you enjoy~

They had finally made it home. An immeasurable bliss came over John as he got to collapse onto his far-too-old and far-too-small bed. As he laid, George came in and snuggled up next to him, and the two had a wonderfully peaceful rest. The entirety of the Hamburg trip had left John more than exhausted and he slept for most of the day.

He would have loved to spend the rest of his days like that: cuddling with George, and nothing else.

That morning, he was asleep, until he felt George's calloused hands reaching around John's back, holding him close.

"Good morning," George hummed, and John became acutely aware of the mass on his body. His body was warm and heavy, like a weighted blanket. 

"Morning to you too," John said and soon found himself reaching up to kiss George. Everytime he did, he still felt sparks fly through the base of his spine all the way down to his fingertips. George moaned into the kiss and his hand began to snake under John's shirt. John could feel himself flush under George's searching grasp. It was a level of intimacy that he hadn't felt in a long time, and never was he this passionate about it. He let his hands drift towards George's lower back, bringing him closer until there was no space between their bodies.

They pulled back for air and John was about to pull George back towards him, but seeing his flushed skin gave John a visual reminder of when George was feverous, and soon Klaus's words were echoing through his head.

_ If he stays human, he will die. _

The warmth that was engulfing them washed away, leaving a cold weight in John's chest.

George seemed to notice the shift and sat up, looking at John with concerned eyes.

"I'm just hungry, is all," he feebly excused, although he knew he wasn't going to eat much with his newfound anxiety. George said that it was fine, but John couldn't accept it. He couldn't surrender his thoughts and apprehensions when George's life was in the balance. 

"John?" George asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"—Yeah?"

"If you're gonna make breaky, can you make some for me too?"

John snorted. "Do you even need to ask?" he said, throwing himself out of bed to scour his meager pantry. Surely there was something he could make, some kind of homecoming meal. Sadly, he had very little. They were going to have to eat plain slices of bread or a can of chowder if he didn't head out to buy something.

But before he could even tell George to throw on some clothes, there was a knock at the door. 

"Shite," he cursed, before taking the covers on their bed and throwing them over George. "Don't move," John whispered. He bent down, threw on some sweaty jeans, and opened the door.

"Hello, John." It was Brian.

"Fuck," John said, immediately slamming the door closed. 

He opened the door again. "Hello, Eppy, how do you do?"

"I'm fine, but this visit isn't about me. Can I come in?"

John slowly shuffled to the side and out of the way of the door, opening it wide.

"Welcome to my palace, probably nicer than your broom closet," he said. Brian said nothing as he entered, and John realized he had nowhere to sit.

"So, um, why're you here?"

"I phoned you several times and you didn't respond," Brian said curtly. John looked over to see his phone, plugged in, and apparently operational.

"Must've slept through it— sorry."

"That's fine, I imagine you were exhausted by your Hamburg excursion… mind telling me what happened?"

John was going to laugh in his face, not because his question was funny, but because John was so horribly nervous and jittery. 

"Is that Eppy?" George asked, and John blanched. He could see George sit up in the bed, the blankets sliding off to reveal his entirely bare chest. 

And then it all struck him how incredibly damning the scene was. George, in bed, naked. John, shirtless and exhausted. And between them, only one bed.

“Jesus Christ, Eppy,” he swore. Brian looked at him, and then at George, and the bed, before sweeping his eyes across the room.

“...You both live here?” he finally asked and John was amazed at how he didn’t comment on how awkward the sight of them was.

“Yeah, we do. I was, eh, thinking of moving to someplace bigger when we got more cash,” John explained. “But I think recent events postponed that.” John then began to throw his luggage off of the one chair in the flat, just somewhere for Brian to sit. “It’s a long story,” he began.

“I think I have to gist of it, according to Paul. I really just need to know if I can count on you two.”

John looked at George; George looked at John. They shared a brief nod. “I think you can count on us,” John said, sitting in the bed next to George, partially in his lap.

Brian hummed. “Now, I need you to promise me this. George ran away and you became completely unreliable, willing to let the band dissolve. Now, it doesn’t matter if you four stay together for me; I have other bands. I would like to see you succeed, as would anyone else, but I am not wholly dedicated.”

“Oh, like  _ Gerry and the Pacemakers  _ are half as good as us,” John snorted, despite how this was far from the ideal environment to do so. Maybe it was because he was in love, giving him the courage to mouth off to his manager.

“ _ John, _ ” Brian said, emphasizing his name to tell John he was not in the mood for his bitter wit. “This is not about me, it’s about Paul. He told me that if you two pull a stunt like this again— jeopardizing the band because of some petty squabble,  _ he will leave, and I will drop you. _ ”

Something in the air shifted; it suddenly became cold, and John was certain it wasn’t because the cheap heating died out again.

“Sorry, Eppy. We won’t do it again,” George said, so simply that it sounded disingenuous. However, John knew that George didn’t lie, regardless of how mechanical his answer was. Brian too seemed to find his answer unsatisfactory.

“I am being serious. I don’t like having to threaten you, and I still stand by what I said when I first met you. You’re talented, almost unrealistically skilled, and it would be a shame for that talent to be wasted in the back of dirty pubs, so please,  _ please,  _ don’t waste the opportunity you have. I care too much about you to let you drown, but I can't force you to stay afloat. You have to put in an effort to swim.” It was a motivational speech, slightly impromptu, and rousing. However, all John could think about was the twitching of George's leg underneath him and the grumbling of his stomach.

“Yeah, Eppy, we want in. I know I was acting a fool in Hamburg, but I...” John looked at his increasingly inpatient companion. "I know what I want, and it's for us to stay."

"To stay in the band," George echoed. Brian seemed content by the answer and stood up. 

"Very well then, I'll hold you to your words. But if I hear word of you two shirking your duties, then the band's done." And with that, their manager left, but not before pausing in the doorway to glance back at the couple. "And, you two… congratulations.”

It left John in shock and George in relief. 

“I’m glad he’s gone,” George muttered. “I had to take a piss.”

John couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him.

After a piss and some shopping, leading to a large breakfast at noon, the pair decided to restructure their lives, get their act together, so to speak. It was an arduous task, asking John, captain dysfunction, and George, a literal wild animal, to step it up, but they did. Because John didn’t own an alarm clock of any kind, he asked George to wake him up because he knew George was an early-riser (he almost said early bird, but that was too on-the-nose). His plan backfired when George woke him up at six in the morning, right alongside the sun. As lovely as the sight was, it made John grouchy for a week until he got used to it. George’s circadian rhythms made John rise and fall with the heavens. He genuinely was feeling more refreshed, more in-tune with nature. 

They also had gotten into the habit of better eating. There was no way in hell John would ever allow George to eat stale bread or dry grains of rice, so he began to cook more. His work was amateur at best, a paltry imitation of what he remembers his family and relatives being able to make, but George ate it all regardless. John wanted nothing more than to make sure he was happy, healthy, and hopefully soon, wealthy. Klaus’s warning hung over him like an invisible reaper, just waiting for the most tragic moment to strike, so John would do everything in his power to prevent it.

Eventually, after a week of domestic bliss veiling a creeping anxiety, Paul called back. It had been seven days since they saw him last, on the ferry back to London, and he was adamant that he needed time and space. After all that waiting, Paul was back and looking better than before. Very clean shaven, very crisp. He looked like he was about to take a lucky bird on a date to an exquisite restaurant, and then a play. Of course, it was an hour before noon, and outside of the Cavern. 

“I’m surprised I’m the second to last one here,” he mused upon arrival. “Usually I’m the one dragging you to work.”

John coughed. He felt like a fool, standing outside the club. He and George were dressed and ready to go, far too early for Pre-Hamburg John to ever entertain. It was all a pathetic act to make Paul think that they were responsible, and he could tell from Paul’s reserved glances that they were all thinking the same thing:

They looked like monkeys in suits.

But there was nothing else for them to say, to do. It was just—  _ weird  _ between them. Was Paul still furious at John? He must have been putting on a mask, hiding under his copious amounts of aftershave.

Paul opened his mouth to say something, closed it, opened his mouth again, and shut it once more. Then, he finally decided on what words to use. 

“It’s nice to see you two,” he said, voice reserved and polite.

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too,” John parroted back. Paul nodded, before setting his bass down and leaning against the side of a building. “You want a fag?” John asked after a moment. Paul looked at John thoughtfully, almost about to say yes, before shaking his head.

“Can’t. It’ll stink up my breath,” he replied, and John reached into his coat pocket and pulled one out for himself, but not before George stepped away. He supposed that the stench of the smoke was too much for George’s virgin bird lungs and tucked his pack of cigarettes away. 

“Wonder when Ringo will get here,” John mused out loud. It would have been nice for someone to break the cold, tense atmosphere. “Hey Paul?”

“What is it?”

“Is there any reason why you’re all cleaned up?”

Paul hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answered.

“He’s talking about all that perfume you got on,” George chimed in, and it was enough to get a reaction from Paul.

“It’s not perfume! It’s better than- than smelling like dead fish, like you!”

“He doesn’t smell that bad—” John interjected and Paul snorted.

“Well, I think that long nose of yours is broken.  _ Because, _ ” and he paused for emphasis, “you snogged him right after he was swimming with the fishies.”

John blanched and asked how he knew.

“Christ, John, I’ve known you’ve liked him for a while now.”

“Since when?”

“Since you let a homeless guy live with you,” Paul retorted and John had to tap his nose in a resigned  _ Touché. _

“If you must know, I got meself a bird and she’ll be watching the show this afternoon,” Paul said.

“Knowing your charm, you could show up dressed in rubbish and still impress her,” John snarked.

“All the charm in the world and I can’t get you to look at me the way you do at George,” he said with a sad smile, and John finally understood.

“Macca...”

“Don’t. Please, just don’t. It’s not your fault, yeah? You two are happy— ‘Sides, I’m not queer.”

John wanted to bark back,  _ me neither, you wanker,  _ but stopped. He and George were queer, and it was all just now hitting him. He had been too wrapped up in the pleasure of George’s presence and in life itself to fully notice, but they were a couple, a really weird, gay couple now.

“What does that mean?” George suddenly perked up and both Paul and John grew a little flustered. 

“Well, put simply, it’s when you’re a bloke and you like other blokes,” Paul said, a fairly neutral response. 

“Well, then,” George grinned. “I guess that means you ain’t,” he said, looking at John. “Cause you’re a bloke, and I’m a bird.”

Paul let out a steam of air and the three of them had a small chuckle.

“Aye, we’ll tell the courts that,” John said. “And then they’ll get me for bestiality.” He had thought about that before, at least, but he knew that it was fine. George not only had a human body but also a human intelligence, not to mention the fact that they haven’t even consummated their love yet. (That particular thought left John feeling both tingly and scared).

Man, what would Mimi think? Gods, she would faint at the sight of George if she ever caught him eating worms or hunting small animals for food. Then again, even if George was a bit of a freak, he was still friendly. 

Soon, Ringo arrived and their conversation cut short.

“Alright, lads, let’s put on a show for Paul’s new bird,” John said, Paul blushing. They went into the Cavern, glad they stayed outdoors instead of waiting in the tiny closet in the back to go on. They shuffled onstage and John immediately began to prune the crowd, trying to find Paul’s elusive new girlfriend. 

It was sad how little time it took. She was dead center, standing tall and proud in a rather elegant white coat over a simple dress. She looked young, but far removed from the average fan. The feature that tipped John off the most and confirmed that it was indeed her, was her hair. It was red, far more vibrant than John’s, and caught the light in a way that made it look like fire.

(If John had fallen for her, their kids would have the most pigmented locks in the world.) 

Paul was simply filling the John-shaped void in his heart with this girl. If he hadn’t realized that Paul was jealous of George for his relationship with John, he would have complimented Paul for his taste. She was a bit of a stunner, but John couldn’t honestly say he was attracted to her.

“John! We’re starting!” George hissed, and he snapped his head forward to see Paul counting them in.

“One, two, three, four!”

And they began to play, forgetting all their worries.

Later, he would find out that Paul's new girl was named Jane, the similarities to his own moniker being noted by Ringo. From what he could tell, Paul was on the prowl, desperate to find someone and there was a social event celebrating a movie she was in at the same time. She was an actress, very cultured, and Paul's new immaculate manners made much more sense. That meant three out of four Beatles were squared off, leaving Ringo the lone bachelor. 

Their performance was off, Paul, John, and George all giving it more energy than necessary and not communicating beforehand led to moments where George would rip into a solo right as Paul would begin to sing the bridge. Sloppy, but still enjoyable regardless.

They went home, John already planning dinner while George sauntered along, humming to himself. 

"Paul said he was taking Jane on a date tonight," he mused out loud. John nodded, feeling slightly conflicted for effectively abandoning Paul as his best friend, but then again, what he and Paul had was nothing compared to him and George. 

_ Don't overthink it, John. You're already in love with a magic bird man, don't make things harder for yourself. _

And so, he stopped worrying about it and instead focused on how Paul seemed to enjoy his fair lady's company.

"Yeah, he's real sweet to her."

"Why don't we do that?" George asked.

"Do what? Be sweet?" John replied, suddenly worried his affections and doting were inadequate.

"No, I meant go on a date," George said. "Paul and Jane got all excited when they left for theirs." His lips were tugged up into a small smile, and John could count all his teeth from where he was.

"George, I'm sorry, but there's something you need to know."

George's toothy grin faded and John felt like a villain.

"Remember when we were talking about being queer and all that? Thing is, it's illegal—"

"Never stopped me before—"

"George, I'm sorry, but we can't do that stuff in front of other people. We can still do it at home..." John trailed, but the damage was done. George deflated, and if he was a dog, his metaphorical tail would have stopped wagging.

Then, it started up again.

"Well then, I guess we'll just have to have our date away from other people!" he exclaimed and started running around John, slowly spiraling outwards.

"George, what are you doing?"

"I'm thinking!" he hissed. "We gotta— I gotta—" he stuttered, before stopping and looking at John with a devilish glint in his eyes. "I have the perfect idea for a date."

John felt a shift in him, like his blood suddenly reversed directions. It was excitement, fear, all wrapped in anticipation.

"What're you up to?" he asked, and George replied:

"I really don't want to spoil the surprise." Although George was honest to a fault, he did avoid answering the question altogether. "Don’t worry about it, I'll take care of everything," he quickly said, already skipping ahead on the path home. 

John couldn’t help but feel a warm happiness spread over him, George’s over-spilling into his own. What had he just gotten into?


	37. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about that turnabout? I've been really motivated lately and I hope you enjoy this one

For the date, which George refused to share any details about, John was not allowed to leave the flat. He didn't mind, of course, but George flew off before he could ask if he should make dinner or not. Hours passed and John decided,  _ fuck it,  _ and heated up a can of soup. If only George could have given him some hint of what they were going to do, what they should wear— he felt completely unprepared and hated it. 

At least this time he could take comfort in that fact that it was impossible to plan for anything by design.

The sun was long gone, and John noted how he was feeling groggy and tired when it was only nine at night. Damn George and his bird-clock. 

"Ayy, John." He jolted in his seat, accidentally dropping his spoon into his French onion soup, splashing the brown liquid on his shirt.

"George!"

His companion grinned; it was time for the big surprise.

"You're eating?" George asked, however. 

"Is there… a problem with that?" John hesitantly replied, trying to wipe soup off his white button-up. 

"I would stop that," George replied, and John soon assumed that the mystery date was some kind of dinner. But where could they have a romantic dinner away from people?

"Come on, John!" George hastily whispered before climbing up and over the window. John didn't know what vendetta he had against the stairs, but when George beckoned him again, John found himself outside, scaling his apartment building.

It was relatively easy, with the building's shoddy brickwork creating numerous footholds for John. Normally, he would have been afraid of heights,, but being scared of heights when you lived with a bird felt silly.. He put his hands on bulky windowsills as he pulled himself up, George already out of sight. 

The romantic date must have been set up on the roof, and George had to have cooked the food himself. Not a half-bad idea to John, who had recently learned the value of a good, home-cooked meal.

When he got to the top, which wasn't far, George was there, waiting, and no tables or chairs or food was in sight.

"George… you do know what a date is, right?"

George nodded.

"I've got it all planned out—  _ don't worry—  _ now take off your shoes, like me." John gawked, unsure if he heard that right, but George was taking his shirt off as well, and John felt very weird.

_ Was this some kind of bizarre mating ritual? Was George coming on to him? To have sex?  _ Then,  _ do ravens have penises?  _

He was beginning to get confused and almost made a move to take his own shirt off, but George shook his head.

"No, no, I need you to stand here," he said, sliding John over a couple of feet, "and stand still."

"George, what're you—"

"It's a surprise!" he hissed and John stopped, put his hands to his sides, and stood erect like a statue. George was pleased by this: he grinned and did a small pirouette before running off. His form jumped across two rooftops and John momentarily got distracted by the view. He didn't usually get to see Liverpool from up high like he did now. Almost looked pleasing.

A sharp whistle rang out and looking ahead, John saw George, half-shifted, creating a humanoid silhouette with wings. 

_ Jump! _

George made a leap off of the building and started to glide downwards, across the rooftops.

_ "Holy shit—" _

His wings flapped as he pulled his body from a nose-dive into a horizontal position. His arms were elongated, ready to grab John—

_ "Don't move!" _

—and plucked John from where his feet were glued to the building up into the air. 

It felt like a punch, the air escaping his lungs. There was a sense of disorientation, John's body quickly being forced sideways and pulled in. He could feel the wind cutting into his skin, and the bitter cold sting that followed.

Oh, and all the while he was screaming bloody murder. 

He wriggled and writhed in panic and that was enough to get George to stop and start back-flapping, slowing down his momentum as he perched on a tower-like building with his elongated talons.

John still didn't stop screaming.

"Jesus fuck!" he yelled.

"Are you hurt?" George asked and after a few more seconds of cursing, John looked at him.

"Physically, no. Emotionally,  _ yes. _ "

George's eyes widened, bulging out of his skull. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm so, so sorry. I—"

John was quick to correct himself. "I'm not mad, I really ain't. Just scared the shit out of me." He looked past the edge of the tilted platform they were on back to his apartment building. They had traveled a considerable distance, and John realized at once that he flew and couldn't remember a single thing about it. 

"Let's try it again, yeah? This time, with me already in your arms." George, who looked like he might have cried, nodded and scooped up John again, adjusting his grip and standing on the edge.

The sense of vertigo hit John and he almost wanted to start screaming again. "You’re actually gonna jump off?"

"I can't take flight from a stand-still, even if I wasn't carrying you."

"What if you can't get any lift and we go  _ splat? _ "

"Then I would turn us around so that I'd soak up the fall," George simply replied, and before John could ponder the meaning of that statement, George jumped.

He may have known ahead of time, but he felt his lungs get crushed under the sudden pressure, and adrenaline took over his mind. He grabbed George with nothing short of a choke-hold. If George minded, he didn't show, controlling the feathers on his massive black wings to catch the wind and soar upwards.

They lurched in the air and blood slammed into John's skull. He suddenly couldn't tell which way was up, down, North, South, left, right; he felt like he was suspended in a boiling washing machine.

"John, it's okay, I got you, I'll never drop you," George’s voice cut through the cacophony of thoughts. John opened his eyes to see buildings and lights flash by, and then settled his gaze on George. There was no fear, just a steady expression of content, but there was a twitch of the lips. John could see that he was happy, ecstatic, to be flying, and his confidence filled John. He loosened his grip, leaned into George, and looked out across the world speeding past.

He was flying,  _ flying!  _

It was impressive how stable the flight was considering the displacement John's body must have been causing. George was graceful, never flapping his wings but instead catching the wind with them, gliding like a kite. Every now and then, they would hit a spot of turbulence, but once John was no longer afraid of dying, it was beautiful. George had to have been planning this route, for the buildings began to rise higher, the night lights more brilliant. 

Against George's warm (and firm) chest, the cold was forgotten, and John was overwhelmed with awe. He was flying, soaring through the skies! It felt euphoric, completely unreal, and he was in a state of weightlessness. 

Finally, after flying for a while, which felt like a few seconds to John, George began to pull up, flapping his wings and setting John down on the tallest building in sight. 

" _ Wow, _ " John breathed out, surprised at how heavily he was gasping for air. " _ Holy shit— _ "

George smiled, and brought himself right next to John, blanketing him with his massive wings. A week ago, they were frayed and damaged, but now they were gorgeous and silky again. He really was a man of miracles, defying both the laws of nature and gravity.

They sat like that for a moment, John watching the subtle rise and fall of George's chest. The streetlamps and windows were illuminated, and if John squinted, the streets of Liverpool turned into a sea of twinkling lights.

"Did you like it?" George asked.

John laughed. "No, I didn't—" he began.

"—I loved it." The thick layer of feathers on George's wings puffed up, and the lad snuggled closer to John. He said nothing, but John could feel him bury his head into John's neck. 

John sat there, and then tilted his head up to look at the sky.

"It's a full moon," he mused.

George said nothing.

"...I have bad dreams about the moon sometimes," he muttered. Something in his tone tipped off John that he wasn't feeling the same bliss that John felt, and looking at him, he could see why. It might have been the light, but George's face was cast in shadow, his skin pale. "One of my first memories was of the moon," he continued. "It was full, and I was all alone in the woods."

John listened, trying to piece out George's backstory. Was this the story of how he was born? No, he had parents living in Liverpool, but…

"I've just been thinking about it a lot. Ever since me head got smashed in. 'Keep dreaming about it all," he said in a small voice. "...'M sorry, that's not very romantic, is it?"

"No, it's fine," John said, rubbing a thumb tenderly over the scar on George's head. It was little more than a scab, brown and yellow and healing cleanly. Slowly, John leaned over to kiss it, and George's grim expression melted away slightly. They sat like that for a moment longer before George stood up again.

"Ready for round two?" George asked after a moment and picked up John, bridal style. He marveled at how much raw muscle had to be packed in that thin frame to hold him up. George leaped off the building and began to soar again, John being able to soak in every minute detail. It was hard the first time because of the fear and ecstasy, but now that he experienced it once, he could savor it the second time. 

George truly seemed at ease, just letting the wind guide him, hair whipping back. It must have been wonderful to be a bird, to be able to fly like this every day. John remembered an hour ago when he thought he was getting a romantic dinner.  _ This  _ was infinitely better. Now, the reason that George didn't want him to eat was apparent: fear out of him spewing up whatever he ate. The shoes were so that they wouldn't fall off either. Really, he should have anticipated flying as George's plan, but it was just too magical, too outside reality. It all felt like a dream, a very real and very lovely dream.

With disappointment, they got back to the flat, George getting his shoes for him and carrying him to the window. John was thankful, as his ankle was still tender, climbed in, reheated the remains of his forgotten soup, and offered George some. He declined, saying that he already ate earlier, and the two headed to bed in each other's arms.

As the days dragged on, John became acclimated to the changes in his life. It was odd, calling up Paul and asking to come over only to be told,  _ no, Jane's coming, sorry,  _ and hanging up. He couldn't remember another time he was outright denied, and it was something he had to get used to.

(Ringo was still Ringo, though. He'd never change.)

Things were a little different, but stable. No sudden surprises, and few to no indications of Klaus's curse coming to reign down on them. George seemed perfectly healthy, aside from some minor incidents. When John woke up to George's feathers scattered all over the floor and him preening himself, he panicked. He asked Paul, who knew nothing, then Ringo, who knew nothing, and then an actual veterinarian what was going on until he learned that he was moulting. It was still weird, seeing George scatter feathers, similar to a human losing hair when stressed. 

Honestly, John was paranoid, he knew he was, but he couldn't help himself. George was cursed to die at some point, and John fretted over him at any hint of malaise. But George's annoyances at his constant worry eventually won out, and John began keeping his thoughts to himself. George seemed happy, and that was what mattered most, even if he was too thin for John's liking.

Their shows got back to their standard, them slowly getting over the conflict they felt in Hamburg. Good enough that Brian decided to push for an album. John suspected he wanted it out before the band could potentially dissolve again, but he kept his lips shut. George Martin had come in at lunch, watched their show, sneered at George when he made one mistake, and left. The verdict: "Let's get this over with." They were to go into the studio, simply play one of their live shows, and put that on the LP. 

It should be easy, and hey, it would be out in time for the holiday sales. George had already reworked many of their songs, pumping them with energy and life with strange new chord progressions and embellishments. The only song George Martin found completely unworkable as is was _Misery,_ a slow blues tune (and one of the few that George didn't touch.) Even if they didn't like Martin's attitude, he was a wizard at the studio and was quickly able to fix it up, making it faster and livelier. Plans soon got made, a date was reserved, and the four arrived at the studio, George munching on a large beetle he found on a tree nearby.

John prayed that it wasn't symbolic of anything.

They came in, already seeing microphones set up over their instruments. 

"Alright. Let's knock the socks off of old man George," John said, and they quickly geared up, waiting for Mr. Martin to cue them in. He did so, and the four played their gig, trying to sound as good and clean as possible. The album could only hold around forty minutes of content, but they played for several hours, repeating takes as per George Martin's requests.

They all sang at least once, although John was surprised that George wanted to do the vocals on _Do you Want to Know a Secret,_ it easily being one of the simpler songs. He knew George could sing well, but he was embarrassed about singing, especially in front of Martin, who kept scowling at George whenever he opened his mouth.

Martin was pleased with most all the songs, _Secret_ excluded, and complimented Paul on the middle eight of _There's a Place,_ before Paul sheepishly admitted it was George who came up with that bit, and Martin quickly retracted his praise. The aggression led to a tense atmosphere, and they wrapped up the take they were on quickly.

They finished what they could, even bowing to their limited audience, and scuttled off for lunch. Paul and Ringo went out, while John had packed sandwiches ahead of time. It was easier and cheaper, but when George went to get his, it was missing. Of all the petty things to do. John was pissed, and gave the bulk of his meal to George, who gratefully took it. Why would anyone stoop as low as to steal the sandwich that John made for his boyfriend—

—He felt a small surge of happiness at using that word—

—and who could have done it? Not Paul or Ringo, and none of the workers at the studio seemed to care much either. John finished his sandwich, now a small snack, and got up to snoop around. There wasn't much, he wasn't allowed into the other rooms that were recording, and most of the studio was off-limits. He was about to go back and stew in silence when a distinctive voice reached his ears.

"... _ have to get a session musician... ...do some overdubs... _ "

John stopped and swiveled, following the voice to George Martin's office, where he was discussing the mixing of the album to a younger man with thick glasses and headphones, eating a sandwich.

_ Bastard!  _ John thought, hands clenched into fists. 

" _ Thanks for the sandwich, by the way, sir, _ " the other man said and that was when John burst through the door.

There was a reason John had never seen the glasses-man before: he was terribly nervous and fearful the moment John came in, and immediately excused himself. It was then just John and Martin in the sparse office. He had to note how clean it was, especially compared to Brian's. 

But that wasn't important now.

"The hell's your problem with George?" John growled, out of patience for the producer.

"I'll be blunt: he's not as talented as you think he is, and the band would be better off without him." Oh, how John wanted to smack him!

"Well, can you stop being an arse to him?" Martin's hostility at George was very bizarre, almost as if he had a personal vendetta. Before, John believed it was due to George's mannerisms, when he was still acclimating to human life and had less tact. But now, the hatred between the two Georges was larger and definitely couldn't be written off.

John let out a deranged laugh. "You know,  _ don't you?! _ " 

To his surprise, George Martin didn't react much. Unlike Klaus, who quickly went into a cold fear, Martin said, "I know he's the weakest link in the band," showing no signs that he knew of George's secret. John sputtered, felt like a fool for his failed attempt at intimidation, and left the room, feeling confused and upset. Luckily for him, seeing George,  _ his George,  _ again was enough to put John back in high spirits. 

He was honestly angry about how poorly the first half of the session turned out to be. George Martin was supposed to be a legend, best of the best, but he was acting like a schoolboy with an assignment he didn't like. He was just putting in the bare minimum, and it felt ridiculous that John was more motivated and driven than him.

George was eager to leave, as was John, but something caught his eye. He sauntered over to the rubbish bin in the corner and saw half a sandwich buried in it. If it was his own or glasses-guy's, he couldn't tell, and he wasn't too keen on digging through garbage. But before he could question it, Paul and Ringo returned and it was time to get back to playing. 

"John, let's go!" George called, almost a whine, and John ran to catch up with him. 

After lunch, things had changed. Maybe it was the fuel in everyone selling, but they played harder and better, and by the end of it, John had blown out his voice as they finished Twist and Shout. Martin stopped hurling insults and remained silent most of the session, something they were all thankful for. It allowed them to let the music flow and even glasses-guy came out to congratulate them. They had put on a show, and George Martin was extremely impressed, even if he didn't show it outwardly.

John thought about it all, both their new album as well as Martin's behavior. As he laid in bed, feeling tired but unable to sleep, he mused about other things. The flat he lived in was tiny, the floor already coated in feathers. He should really start planning to move somewhere bigger, nicer. They could move to London, where if they were ever to make more singles and albums, it would be convenient. But George, would he appreciate a larger city, or would he rather live somewhere quieter and detached from other people? 

John turned over on his side, difficult considering how little free space there was on the bed. George seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his eyes darting under his closed eyelids. 

_ Wonder what he's dreaming about…  _ John mused that it may have been of the moon again, like George revealed last night. He wish he knew what George's history was, and where he came from. If his parents were ravens, humans, or maybe shape-shifters like him as well. Surely he had to have come from somewhere, unless he just popped into existence in the woods.

_ It doesn't matter where he came from; he's here now and that's what counts. _

John, content with his answer, was about to drift to sleep when George shifted in the bed, trembled for a second, and then grew still. His breathing was less even, and John grew terrified, past events flashing through his head. That was, until George's breath became even again and his body relaxed.

John sighed, closed his eyes, and did the best he could to fall asleep against his ramping fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	38. Eating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been possessed by the writing spirits; enjoy the next chapter!
> 
> (Also john and george do get a little...close, BUT its not smut or porn so don't fret)

The next day, John and George were up early with the sun, and John was proud when he was up before George. They spent the morning working on music, John sensing that if  _ Please Please Me  _ did well, they would have to follow up and to do that, they needed more songs. He knew for a fact he wanted the slow, sad song he wrote in Hamburg, something George quickly picked up on. He could play it infinitely better than John considering George began his guitar career with finger-picking while John learned by using a pick with his fingers. After that, they settled down and read a book, George's linguistics improving, and after that it was lunchtime.

Emphasis on the  _ was. _

There was another power outage through the flat, which let to John marching out to complain to get it fixed, George trailing behind him. As he hissed at the apathetic landlord, his lunch, a large omelette, began to sizzle, smoke, harden, and crust up. By the time the pair made it back, it was pitch black and sealed to the pan. 

And through all the smoke and yelling, Brian decided it was the ideal time to stop by.

"Master of perfect timing!" John shouted, trying (and failing) to scrape the remnants of their lunch. "What's the news?"

Brian was immediately shaken. "Are you alright?!"

"Yeah, John was just making omelette du charcoal."

"How… romantic," Brian said.

"I know, matches his eyes," John said as he broke his spatula against the solidified omelette. 

George rapidly blinked, twinkling said eyes at Brian.

"Well then. First of all, George: Martin, that is," Brian began and at the mention of his name, George (Harrison, that is) bristled. "He already finished the mixing of the album.  _ Please Please me  _ and  _ Ask Me Why  _ are going to be released as singles beforehand. If all goes well, I see no reason for it to fail."

"Burnt omelettes and albums, my day can't get better," John said, voice chipper. George's sleep scheduling was actually working for him. "What's the other bit of news, then?"

Brian had a small smirk. "Well, when I first came by, I was appalled at how small this space was for two young men. I was thinking that… it would be wise for you to move to somewhere bigger, nicer."

Now  _ that  _ was news! 

"No kidding?"

"I'm quite serious. I have an extra apartment that I use for..."

"Gay orgies?"

"... _ liaisons.  _ You two can move in right now if you'd like."

John was excited, even if he knew his manager was offering the flat more as an incentive to stay in the band and not out of good will. But still, even if John was a pig being led on with a carrot, a bigger flat! It was what he dreamed of! George would be happier with more space, and they would have proper heating and  _ air conditioning... _ And, and if it's in the place Brian lives at, it's bound to be spiffy and nice. 

He was about to start jumping for joy, but then he saw George's face. He looked… pensive, nervous,  _ afraid. _

"George? Are you—"

"Excited!" George's face warped from tense to animated in a second, making John question if he ever saw the grim expression. "It's great news, innit?"

John thanked Brian profusely, George less so, and Brian told them the address: 36 Falkner Street.

"Thanks Eppy, I—  _ We  _ really 'preciate it." His voice must've wavered with how he was getting choked up, and Brian genuinely smiled in response before leaving.

After thanking him yet again, John first had to make a proper lunch before he could even think about preparing to move. 

Lunch: made. Omelette: delicious. And importantly, George: satisfied. 

Now, to most people, packing and moving takes time and preparation. To John, it took about fifteen minutes. He had so pathetically little in terms of possessions. There was a record player, a crate of LPs, (John was frustrated that George wouldn't throw out his more bizarre albums,) a sleeping bag, three suitcases of clothes, a chair, a phone, a box of cooking utensils, and another for miscellaneous items. (The bed came with the flat.)

That was all, and John was pleased that he would be able to move that day. As he packed up, anticipating his new home, a strange odor assaulted his senses. It smelled rotten, and only got worse as John moved George's old sleeping bag. 

_ Funny to think that I wanted him to sleep on this way back then… now look at us. _

But the stench was too strong to ignore and John grabbed the bag by the ends and began to shake. When he saw what was in it, his eyes widened.

Out came several photographs, watches, jewelery, guitar picks, receipts, rocks, gemstones, cans, and then more concerningly, scraps of food, stray feathers, strange rock-like pellets, and then  _ bones.  _

_ Jesus calm down— _

He took a shaky breath and studied the bones that clattered to the floor. They were miniscule, most likely from rats or fish or—

_ —or mice. _

He had seen George eat bugs but never hunt another living creature. John knew he did hunt, but actually seeing animal carcasses was an entirely different thing. The sleeping bag still smelt like a corpse, so John decided it was best to throw it out, George watching silently from the side. John assumed the majority of the problematic items were weeks, if not months, old. 

He thought no more about it and threw it all in the garbage. Good riddance, too. Most of the objects had a bad aura to them.

The mouse skulls made him nervous because of Klaus. In his head, he could see George as a raven hunting Klaus down. It must have been terrifying to be Klaus and meet a giant raven person in Hamburg and have him sit next to you and sniff at you…

_ "Holy shit,"  _ John said out loud.

George never had a crush on Klaus. His raven brain wanted to  _ eat him. _

"What's wrong?" George asked.

John forced on the biggest smile he could and said, "Nothing, dear."

After contacting Paul so they could borrow his car, the three barreled off to the new place and quickly set up their new home.

And yes, Paul was shocked at how little John truly owned.

Upon entering, John felt the air, slightly below room temperature. The majority of the flat was clean, white, and very nice-looking. John forgot what it was like to walk on carpet instead of hard, wooden flooring. No risk of splinters! The next thing he noticed were the walls and doors. That is to say, the flat had actual rooms, not one tiny space with a bathroom tacked on. It was a proper flat, already partially furnished. They had a dresser now, their clothes no longer in a pile on the floor. He could go on and on about the new luxuries at his fingertips, but instead followed in George's footsteps, who, after opening the bedroom window, flopped onto the bed.

Soon, John was right there next to him. 

"You like it? The new place?"

"It's…" George trailed. "...bigger."

"Hey, George, what's wrong?" John asked, fearing that the suddenness of the move might have been too much for George.

"I didn't want to leave," George muttered. "Feels… wrong, bad."

"You'll get used to it," John said. "This place is a lot better for us." George didn't seem very placated, so John continued. "And Brian's on the ground floor and we're a lot closer to Paul too."

Finally, after an eternity, George flipped over and looked at John.

"Okay," he said in a quiet, weak voice. Then, he wormed over so that he was partially on top of John. They locked eyes and John brought himself closer...

Paul grimaced.

"I— ah, I'll get going now," he said, already halfway to the door.

John flushed, quickly rose off the bed, and called after him: "Hey, wait! Do you..." he paused to think, "...want to stay for dinner?" He could already see Paul's mouth move to say,  _ No thanks,  _ before stopping and then acquiescing. 

"Sure. Why not?" Paul said. "I have nothing else to do today," he said, as if that were the only reason he was staying. John got up, George followed, and Paul joked that it physically pained the two to be separated. He wasn't wrong.

After going to the kitchen, John realized he actually had no food in his new place, and Paul stood there, staring disapprovingly. 

"You look like Mimi when you pull that face," he noted and Paul immediately lost the severe expression. 

"You don't invite someone to stay for dinner and not have anything to cook!"

"Give me a break," John grumbled. "You wanna just head out? I'll pay."

That just made Paul snort. "Better than hunting for worms," he said, looking at George. "But  _ I'll  _ pay so that we can actually go somewhere decent."

John was grateful for Paul's generosity, even if the implication that he was a cheapskate wasn't lost on him.

On the way there, he thought about how he was getting his romantic candlelit dinner with George after all, just with Paul tagging along. But he knew better than to be overly affectionate in public and George quickly picked up on John's behavior and the three went as friends.

The restaurant was more upscale than John Lennon standards, but far below Brian Epstein levels. It was nice enough, and soon drinks and conversation flowed. (Not for George, however. He couldn't hold a drop of liquor to save his life.) There was no mention of Jane, Paul's supposed attraction towards John, or the fact that John and George were now officially an "item." 

Even with the unspoken haze bearing down on them, dinner was nice. It was an unofficial celebration for surviving Hamburg and their enduring friendship. And as a token of their bond, John got Paul to agree to split the bill, the pair ordering a steak for themselves, while George ordered some soup for himself, one of the cheapest items on the menu. John didn't notice, too wrapped up in relief that Paul didn't hate him anymore. 

"George, you can order more. Don't hold back for our sakes," Paul said, cutting a large hunk of meat and swallowing the tender beef. "Oh,  _ christ,  _ that's good," he moaned.

George laughed, sinking into the chair.

Paul leaned over and whispered to John,  _ "He's already so thin. You sure he's eating enough?"  _

John suddenly felt very weird, as if he had done something very wrong and was to be punished. But he knew that he was feeding George enough, and he was about to tell Paul so, until he began to speak again.

"Did you have trouble reading the menu?" Paul asked with concern laced in his voice.

"He's not a moron, Paul," John grumbled; he didn't like where the conversation was headed.

"It's fine," George said, barely above a whisper. It was only marginally louder than the clacking of George’s nails against the table. 

"Is there something wrong with the food?"

"Paul," John gritted out, "drop it."

"I'm just worried about him—"

"I said—" John growled, "— _ drop it. _ "

Paul stiffened, looked at John, and then dropped his attention back to his entree. Whatever jovial atmosphere they had was gone, with George too unnerved to eat anymore and John feeling oddly guilty. 

Knives and forks clinked against plates.

The sound of chewing could be heard.

"I'm sorry," Paul began.

"No, I should've snapped at you," John quickly said.

"Mmn," Paul grunted, and they all resumed eating.

There was a gnarled knot forming in the pit of John's stomach from the way George was dipping his spoon in the soup but never bringing it to his lips. His abstinence from eating soon brought with it the one thought that John wanted to avoid: 

He was sick.

_ Please _ , John begged to an invisible God, _ please don't let this be a sign of what I think it is… please let it just be a cold, something that'll pass. _

Then, as if George read John's mind: "...I'm not sick, it's just that human food doesn't agree with me that well."

_ Explains the animal bones and uneaten food scraps. _

"Why didn't you tell me?" John had to ask.

"I didn't want to upset you," he said and John sighed.

"You're such a rascal," John muttered as he reached a hand over to scratch at the back of George’s neck. With a pleased expression, George leaned into the touch. If he were a cat and not a raven, he would have purred.

"He's like a puppy," Paul noted. "Didn't Klaus say something like that? Called you a puppy?"

"I think it was more of a puppy-love," John said.

"Oh, he's  _ definitely  _ like a puppy," George chimed in. "He gets all excited and happy whenever I hold his hand, or kiss him," he said with a big grin.

"Oh really?" Paul said, suddenly very interested in the conversation now that they were teasing John, all the while their victim growing increasingly redder.

"Piss off, I'm not that bad," John grumbled.

"You're incapable of saying the word 'boyfriend' without giggling," George stated, causing John to blush because he didn't know if he could do it and wouldn't dare risk it.

All it did was just make Paul laugh harder.

"God, you two… you're completely hopeless."

"Yeah," John concurred. "Hopelessely in love."

The trio finished their dinner and went back home. The steak sat pleasantly in John's stomach, as did the dessert they ordered: fudge caramel brownies. He was full and fulfilled, and set to work on finishing his unpacking while George went to the bathroom for an exceedingly long time. The new place was something John could show to his Aunt without feeling ashamed. He had to thank Brian again for this.

"George, you still pissing?

"Uhh, y-yeah," he called back, before popping out of the door. "I wasn't peeing, just thinking..."

"About what?"

"What you said at dinner… Hopelessly in love..." George muttered to himself, a smirk forming on his face.

"Well it's true," John said. "C'mere," he called, patting the empty space in the bed next to him. George did as asked, slithering into the space next to John, shedding his clothes as he did so. In the old flat, George had gotten into the habit of half-shifting so that John would have a layer of insulated feathers to cuddle against. The new space was so warm he didn't need to anymore.

John clicked off the lamp, and the two drew closer. Maybe it was because he was emboldened by their jovial conversation at dinner, maybe it was the cognac he had, but whatever reason it was, John pulled George close.

"I love you," he said, pressing a kiss to his lips. "You’re the most handsome man I ever met."

George looked at him with his deep brown eyes. 

"Let's finish what we started earlier today," George whispered and threw himself on top of John.

What happened next was a blur. All John could feel was the overwhelming sensations of heat and desire. With a vague awareness, he noticed how George was peeling his clothes off until he was in nothing but his boxers, their mouths locked together. He could feel George's hands all over him, squeezing his chest and sliding down towards his lower back. He was getting more and more sucked in and felt himself get more and more worked up, pausing when George had slipped a hand past John's  _ waistband. _

_ Was he… _

_ Were they about to... _

" _ Are you sure? _ " John managed to get out.

He didn't hear George's answer, but he didn't need to. His actions told John all he needed to know.

* * *

When John woke up the next day, he was aware of three things: the bed was a mess, his ass was sore, and George looked absolutely amazing with his soft, sleeping expression. 

_ Last night was… _

John closed his eyes and hummed to himself. He was more than certain that George left some bruises on his belly and thighs. Who knew how…  _ frisky... _ he could get.

Waking up like that, John never felt lighter. It was like his body was bundled in clouds, emphasized by the rays of sunlight filtering through the window. 

He sung to himself; everything in his life was perfect.

Well, almost everything. He did have to take a piss. Sadly, he lifted George off of him as carefully as possible and crawled out of bed. The sudden cold air made goosebumps break out across his bare legs. 

He traveled across the flat, into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

_ Wow,  _ he thought. He looked disheveled, his hair sticking up all over. In the quiet morning, the sound of the faucet filled the room, John washing his face and using his hands to tame his mane.

He picked up a towel to wipe his face—

—and time stopped.

John trembled, convulsed, and numbly watched as the towel slipped out of his hands and drifted to the floor. He could barely register the way his hands shook through the tears that blurred the edge of his vision. The shock was so immense he didn't even notice he stopped breathing.

The underside of the towel was soaked in blood. 


	39. Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm gonna resolve the plot, I have a plan, there's a happy ending, please trust me on this—
> 
> And I hope you enjoy the next chapter

John stood there for a moment in complete silence. His ragged breathing echoes across the sparse bathroom.

"....mmmm...John?" George purred from the bedroom. Quickly, John shut off the faucet, put the towel down, blood hidden, and poked his head into the bedroom.

"Morning, darling," he said. 

"Come back in bed… it's cold," George complained, but John's feet remained stubbornly where they were. There was no way that John could waltz over to him and pretend everything was alright.

"...John?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking—" he started, "—about what to make for breakfast."

George nodded, face still drowsy.

"Is there anything you want?"

"I'm okay with whatever you make," George hummed, burying himself back in the blankets. John left the room, and instead of heading to the kitchen, went to a desk to compose a letter.

George was dying—

_ No. _

"No," he whispered into the blank sheet of paper that laid before him.

_ He refused.  _

George was sick, but John was not going to take it. He couldn't accept it, after everything he had worked for, to lose it all at once— it just couldn't be.

George was dying and deliberately hiding it from John. Unless the red stains on that towel were strawberry jam (didn't smell like it,) then he needed to do something. And so, he pulled out a pen and composed the fastest letter he had ever written.

_ Hello, Klaus. _

_ I know that when we met in Hamburg, it was under pretty bad circumstances. Chances are, you're probably pissed at me, but you can beat me up later. I need to talk to you because George is sick. You said he would die if he stayed human too long and it's happening. Now, I don't know anything about you animal-people, but I don't want him to die. I've never cared about another person more in my life, and I'll do anything to save him, so please tell me: why is he able to turn into a raven in the first place? What's this mysterious illness that's been killing him? And what can I do to help? _

_ I have a feeling that you're going to say "oh, you'll just have to send him back to the wild!" and if that's the case, so— _

The pen in John's hand stopped. He was suddenly assaulted by the memory of George telling him how he would rather  _ die  _ with John than live alone as a raven.

John took a deep breath and kept writing.

_ —so be it. I'm begging you, here. I need answers because I am  _ **_not_ ** _ going to sit by while he hacks up blood. I know you're still alive and human, so how do you do it? _

_ And I'm really sorry about everything that happened in Hamburg. I wasn't thinking straight and made a lot more than a few mistakes. _

_ Thanks, _

_ Bastard (John) _

_ P.S. Tell Astrid I'm sorry for not visiting and I'll make it up to her later. _

_ P.P.S. Paul and Ringo know, I had to tell them, sorry about that too. _

_ P.P.P.S. I'm sorry about a whole lot of shit, really. But I'm gonna stop here before the postscript gets too long. _

It was a shoddy letter, but John didn't have time to write some poetry and draw roses. The uneven scrawl and numerous crossed out words were an attesting to that. Someone's life was in danger, and John had to hope that Klaus would forgive John enough to help George out. There had to have been some kind of animal-shifter kinship between them. At the very least, Klaus wouldn't want to keep the secrets to living to himself, so surely there was  _ something  _ John could do.

Surely… right?

John sighed, wrote out the address on the envelope, and sealed it.

Nothing to do but to send it and wait.

John slapped himself. Was he daft? What if Klaus doesn't have an answer? What if he doesn't reply? The letter might not even reach him! Of all the things John could do, waiting wouldn't help anyone. He needed to get out and find answers for himself. The first idea that popped into his head was to take George to a proper doctor, but George wasn't aware that John knew he was ill. He was straining himself to make sure that John was completely unaware of his ailment. In a way, George was lying to his face to keep John happy, and while those motivations were commendable, he couldn't stand the deception. 

They were supposed to be equals! This wasn't love, you shouldn't have to suffer for love—

_ Calm down, calm down. You can't help anyone if you're pissed off,  _ he had to tell himself, numerous times. 

John heard George move, the silky duvet on the bed rustling. There wasn't time to think things through. He moved to shove the letter in his pocket or under his shirt, before realizing he was stark naked, and tucked the letter in a drawer.

George walked up to him and practically draped himself across John's back as if nothing was wrong. John reciprocated, clasping George's hands with his own, nuzzling his boyfriend—

—The word still sent sparks up his spine.

But now that he was aware George was ill, soon, signs began popping up everywhere he looked. He really should have noticed it sooner. With George's full body on display, John could see how thin he was. Yesterday, he would've said he was slender, sexy, but now? Yes, he was still very attractive, but the faint outline of George's rib-cage was scary to see. 

Thus, John decided what he was going to do.

"Hey, George? I got a favor to ask."

"What is it?" he hummed into John's ear.

"I'm gonna have to go to London today."

George froze, eyes opening wide.

"And, uh, am I allowed to come?"

"Well, George, you see… there's something I want to buy that I can't get here. A gift, for you," he lied. George, who was apprehensive about John leaving him, changed his tune.

"...a gift?"

"Yeah! Christmas is coming up, and I usually buy everything last minute— Well, actually I don't even bother with that— but I want to get you something special," John said. Although he wasn't going to London to do shopping, he did have to go. Besides, he was going to need a very lovely Christmas gift for George, even if he was over a month early. 

"If you wait too long, then everything gets sold out," John reasoned, and George seemed to get it too.

"And I can't come because it'll ruin the surprise—" George said.

"Yeah, exactly!"

At this, George pulled himself off of John. "Then, I guess I'll have to get something for you too, then." And the pair of them were smiling at each other, getting excited. The promise of Christmas was always wonderful, a perfect distraction for the both of them.

_ That is,  _ **_if_ ** _ George lives long enough to see it. _

John growled.  _ No.  _ He was going to make sure George lived, mark his words.

Of course, the prospect of going to London alone didn't inspire confidence, so John, after getting dressed, decided to visit Ringo. His relationship with Paul was still somewhat testy, and he didn't want to push things. Ringo, however, was almost always free and looking for an excuse to go out. As he got dressed, he made sure to bring his glasses, an accessory he usually forewent. He threw on a jacket, shoved his wallet and the letter into his pockets and kissed George goodbye. 

Ringo was shocked to see John so early in the morning, but once he explained how he needed to go on a mission to save George, Ringo agreed to head out. It made the overwhelmingly long bus ride more tolerable, and soon they reached their destination: the London Library.

They went in, (but not before having to pay for a subscription first,) and quickly looked around. Far larger than any possible collection to be found in Liverpool, the books they needed were most likely to be here. If George was an animal person, and Klaus was, chances are, there were tons of them. John knew stories and myths about people changing into animals, and prayed that one of them was based in reality and would hold a solution to his problem. 

He soon learned that what he was looking for was Therianthropy, as one of the staff told him. He and Ringo soon pulled books off the shelves, reading and trying to find out all they could.

There was a surprisingly large amount of content, but John quickly learned that none of it actually gave answers as to curing the plague that ailed George.

There was the classic tale of the Frog Prince, where the princess kisses a frog and he turns human, but George could already switch between forms and John had kissed him plenty of times.

There was Lycanthrophy, werewolves, but those were involuntary transformations. Not to mention the fact that it was a curse or disease, something you weren't born with, like George was.

He read about Skin-walkers, who could turn into any animal, as long as they had said animal's pelt. Cool ability, but again, it was of no help.

But then Ringo had found a Japanese myth called the Crane Wife, or Tsuru Nyōbō, which began to show promise. He slid the thin book over to John who read it slowly. As his eyes glossed over the words, he quickly realized that this was the story he was looking for.

The myth went like this: a man finds a wounded crane in the woods and nurses it back to health. The crane, as repayment, turns into a beautiful woman and becomes the man's wife. 

The story had an eerie similarity to real life.

But then it diverges. The man, poor, cannot provide for the both of them, so the wife begins to make beautiful clothing for him to sell. They become wealthy, but the wife gets more and more ill.

John could feel himself get excited.

The wife tells the man not to come in while she sews the clothes, but curiosity gets the better of him and he looks in. Turns out, she was using her feathers to make the exquisite garments, and upon seeing her husband, flies away forever.

Peachy.

And completely  _ useless! _ He kept rereading the pages, but there was nothing. After all that buildup, that hope, it turned out to be for naught. There were variations on the story, like one where the husband forces the wife to make more clothes, but that just changes the moral from  _ Curiosity kills the cat  _ to  _ Don't be a greedy asshole.  _ Nothing was actually useful to John. 

He wanted to throw it across the room, so badly, but instead closed it and pushed it away. He could feel his temper rise, and wanted the offending book out of his sight before he could hurl it.

He ducked his head down to read more, but it was all garbage. 

Some people who could shapeshift because their ancestors were animals, but again, no mention of dying because of it.

There was a story about the ability coming from one parent being human and another being an animal, which just made John and Ringo very uncomfortable. They knew George's (presumed) parents were human, so definitely not.

John felt himself grow frustrated with every dead end.

There were Greek myths about the gods being able to shapeshift at will, alongside cursing others to turn into animals.

John could feel his arms tense up, his jaw clenched.

Of course, witches could turn into hares and cats, but George wasn't a witch. 

"This is a fucking waste," John huffed. The information was there, it had to have been, but nothing was helping. 

As he scoured books, Ringo brought his head up and shoved his book under John's eyes. It was a book about corvids, and the tip of Ringo's fingers was pointed on a small passage. John read the first sentence.

**_Nesting habits_ **

_ It is known and well-documented that ravens mate for life. _

It should have made John blush, smile, laugh, anything, but instead he just felt his heart sink down into his stomach. He wanted to say something to Ringo,  _ Keep searching,  _ but all he could get out was a whine. When did it become so cold? 

"I thought it was cute," Ringo muttered as he pulled the book back. He then began to take the plethora of books they pulled out spread all over the table, closing and stacking them.

John could suddenly speak again. "Why're you cleaning up? We're not done—"

"John, we've gone through most of the books here. If there was something, we would have found it already."

"We have to keep looking, we have to—"

"Come on, it's getting late, and you're not looking so good either."

"You're just being a lazy asshole!" John hissed. "Don't you care whether he lives or not?"

"I don't want George to die as much as you do," he said, voice painfully calm as opposed to John's. 

"It doesn't  _ sound  _ like you care!"

"John—"

"It's just—  _ it's all bullshit!  _ Why does he have to die?! Why— _ why does everyone I love have to go?! _ " he exploded, slamming his fists on the table. The patrons around them turned and stared at the noise, but John couldn’t see them. Something got caught in his eye.

He didn't realize he had begun to cry. The tears, they poured down his and onto the table, staining the myriad of useless tomes scattered about.

Ringo was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. His mind had shut down, and all that was left to do was cry.

He just…

...couldn't…

...why this, why, why…

...it's not…

...I can't… 

His body heaved forward as he let out a strangled sob against Ringo, who was holding him.

"Fuck,  _ fuck... _ " he said, quickly pushing Ringo off of him and reaching to wipe at his face. Why weren't the tears stopping? "I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," Ringo said. "I know, it's… it's really scary."

_ Terrifying. _

John took a few shaky breaths, taking his glasses and slowly, slowly calming down. 

He felt embarrassed for losing control so easily, in public and in front of Ringo, no less—

But there was something there that was comforting. Ringo, looking at him with those sad, blue eyes, he could understand what John felt. It was like, even if for a short moment, he wasn't alone.

Silently, Ringo took the books and put them away, and when he was done, he put a hand on John's shoulder.

"You okay?"

"No," he snapped back. He hadn't been okay since he was five, much less now. "But… I'm together enough for now."

"Come on, let's get going."

"Hey, um, I…" he started, cringing at how hoarse and choked up his voice was. "I gotta mail a letter," John said, "and… buy George a Christmas gift."

"It's a bit early for that," Ringo said, not in a mocking manner but simply noting it. Thing was, was it a bit early because it was still November? Or was he referring to the fact that George might not even live to see the potential gift John would get?

He shook his head; everything was so backwards to him. 

John gave it no more thought, needing the distraction of shopping. They left, mailed the letter, which Ringo knew was to Klaus without having to be told, and went browsing.

Even if it was a nice change of pace, it brought along with it a new slew of problems. 

What do you buy a raven for Christmas?

_ Worms,  _ Ringo said, with nary a hint of irony. 

"Come on, Rings. That's like buying me Jaffa cakes as a gift. That's a snack—"

"So he really likes worms?"

"Yeah, he does. Any other ideas?"

"I'm not the one dating him!" Ringo exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a mock-surrender pose. "What about a nice watch or something?"

"He's got like, seven platinum watches. All stolen, but—"

"Seven?!  _ Christ, _ " Ringo breathed out. "You two are insane."

"I know, now  _ gift ideas! _ "

"Well, I'd start with his hobbies. What does he like? What makes him happy?"

"Well, he likes music..." John mused.

"And aren't you still borrowing Paul's guitar?"

John froze. 

He thought back, before Hamburg, and realized with a creeping guilt that after his guitar got stolen, he had borrowed Paul's  _ and never gave it back! _

"Shit, you're right."

"Course I'm right. Paul was complaining to me but we couldn't really do a thing about it considering your perpetual poverty."

John whistled to himself. Guitars, especially the nicer ones, could get expensive.

"You gonna buy him a guitar?"

"It's a great idea!" John said. "I'm glad I picked you to come with me. You're a genius," he said, and Ringo blushed at the compliment, very unused to being praised for his intelligence. 

The pair walked into a guitar store, and John got very excited looking around, even if Ringo didn't understand what the difference between most of the models were aside from looks. 

John kept looking, trying out different guitars. They were all nice, no doubt about that, but they weren't perfect and George deserved the best.

And then he saw it.

It was a Gretsch, made in America, massive and absolutely  _ gorgeous.  _ It was a dark cherry color, hollow body… he played on it for a bit and immediately knew that it was the one. Yeah, it cost all his money, but damn, if it wasn't worth it.

Ringo didn't know why he couldn't get a cheaper guitar, but John pointed out that he was a drummer and didn't know what he was talking about. She was an absolute  _ beaut. _

"Hey Rich, did you notice I lost weight?" he said as soon as they left the shop.

Ringo gave John a quick look-over. "Uhh, sure," he said, with little confidence.

John smiled. "Yeah, I just lost a bunch of pounds," he joked. That was literally all of his money he had just spent, but he was happy about it.

And, as silly as it sounded, it gave him hope. George had to live, because he had to see the gift John got for him. His argument made very little sense, but it brought with it some stability that John desperately needed right now. 

They ended up shopping more, mainly for Ringo to get a gift as well. He ended up settling for a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's  _ The Raven,  _ something that John gave him stink‐eye for.

"Wouldn't it be hilarious? George, as a raven, going round town and saying 'Nevermore'? It'd scare the crap out of everyone!" 

"It's a cheeky gift," John said, silently thinking about how hilarious it would be. He pondered the guitar, the big, beautiful guitar in his hands.

"Ey, Ringo?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you do me a favor and hang on to this? I can't bring it to me flat or else George'll find it."

"Course," Ringo said, then winked. "As long as you let me fiddle about on it."

After they finished shopping and had a late lunch/early dinner, they got on the bus back home. John felt weird; he had never spent such a long period of time away from George. 

Truly attached at the hip, John could only hope that George's day solo went well. John had done as much as he could even though he had nothing to show for it. But aside from his breakdown in the library (which thankfully Ringo didn't bring up,) the day wasn't a waste.

He made sure he sent the letter, and watched Ringo take the expensive guitar into his flat before walking away. The sun was beginning to set, and a glance at John's watch told him it was six after he finally set the dang thing right. 

But coming to the flat, he was caught off guard by the fact that George wasn't there. The door was locked and the windows were wide open, as to be expected. It was just weird to come home and be alone. 

Well, he had time to think to himself, at least. If Klaus was a no-go, then what should he do next, where should he go? Best bet would be to visit shirks, witch doctors, gypsies and the like, for no doctor was going to have the answers he needed.

And how he needed them. 

If John couldn't find a solution on how to save George, then he needed to make plans on what to do in case it's all impossible.

He had to— he needed to be in control.

_ …screeeeeeeeeee… _

_ …aaaaaawww… _

John would make sure George survived, he promised himself. 

_...kyahhhh… _

The hell were those noises? They were coming from outside, but John couldn't imagine it coming from a car or person. He went to the window to look, but the view was completely unremarkable. Then, a sharp motion caught John's eye.

Two birds, circling around each other in the sky. But on closer inspection, John saw that one of the birds was a lot bigger than the other and chasing the smaller one down.

_ Must be George hunting down another bird,  _ John thought, not questioning it. Even if it was strange to John, George could hunt other animals if he wanted—

_ Craaaauww! _

John did a double-take. If George was the predator here, why was it that the smaller bird was a raven and the larger one not?

_ Holy shit, _ John realized with a cold sweat, George wasn't the one hunting, he was being  _ hunted. _

How massive did that other bird have to be?

"George!" he shouted, before ducking into the flat. He didn’t think; it was as if his body was suddenly possessed by a spirit. Instinct kicked in, and John looked for something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

The lamp! He grabbed it like it was a claymore, went back to the window, and hoisted it up above his head. He had one shot to hit that hawk should it try flying into the flat.

George dived through the air at John's call and was quickly barreling towards him. Mid-flight, George began to shift back human, growing arms and wrapping them right around John as soon as he was in reach. The impact almost knocked him down, the lamp almost slipping out of his sweaty grasp, but he held fast and soon the predatory bird came up to the window at supersonic speeds.

John screamed and swung.

With far more force than necessary, the hawk went crashing to the floor, lamp shattering. After the loud sound of glass breaking punctuated by a bird screech, all that could be heard was George's heavy breathing. 

"Are you alrig—"

The hawk screamed, springing up with its massive talons brandished, before flying back out the window and out of sight.

_ What the fuck— _

George was croaking and screeching until his face slowly morphed from a beak to two fleshy lips.

"I got you, Geo, I got you," he muttered, holding him. George's arms kept sliding off of John's body until they grew strong and firm enough to grasp him.

John gently tilted George's head to look him in the eyes. "Are you hurt?" he asked, sighing with relief when George shook his head,  _ no. _

Even with the threat gone, John still felt like he was being attacked. He slammed the window closed and held George even closer to his chest.

"George..." he whispered. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise..."

What a scare— never had John expected another animal to hunt George down. The hawk, falcon, egret, kestrel… whatever it was, must've had a seven feet wingspan. (George said it was ten feet, but then said twenty a few minutes later.) Of all the sights to come back home to, watching George almost get killed was not what John needed. 

But then, slowly the two of them were able to calm down. Turns out, that hawk had been circling around the outside of the flat all day, and when George decided to risk going out, it immediately chased him. The hawk didn't harm George, but was chasing and harassing him for a few solid minutes before John came home. 

While George was taking a shower to cool down and wash the anxiety and dirt off of him, John made a very light dinner because he already ate and knew George wouldn't want much.

The bloody towel had disappeared when John went to the bathroom later, and also found portions of George's meal in the trash. Perhaps he was afraid of not being able to hold it down in front of John. But whatever the reason, John never brought it up. There was no reason to have an intervention yet. Life went on as it had before, only now, that demonic hawk was situated outside their flat. 

No one knew where it had come from, but the bird would just be perched and staring at the window, waiting for a raven to come out. It meant that George refused to leave without John, but that was fine.

Their situation, their set-up was functional. But for every day that passed where George grew weaker, John felt himself begin to get worried. Klaus hadn't responded yet, and John was running out of time. He needed help, and he needed it now.

Then, as if someone had heard him, the next time he went to check for mail (which was very frequent,) he found a letter addressed to him. John tore the envelope open and trembled as he read the first words:

_ John, _

_ There's a lot I need to tell you. _


	40. Dagger

The letter had a very messy script, something that was odd considering it was written by an artist. However, the way the words appeared didn't matter, only the message behind them. With a deep breath, John began to read.

_ I suppose I should start from the beginning. I was born human, 1938, and had first changed into an animal— a mouse— when I was two. I had a fever and became very ill, until I shifted and recovered. Since then, my parents made sure to keep my existence a secret. I found that if I didn't change back, my illness would return so I learned to live with it. _

_ My brothers would go to school and I was forced to stay home, as I couldn’t consistently stay human long enough to go with them. I became very lonely and found refuge in art.  _

John had to admit to himself that it made sense. Klaus was always staying indoors, isolated, which he thought was due to his introverted nature all this time.

_ I had a natural talent and worked locked in my home for years. I thought I was the only one in the world like me. That is, until I met someone. He was around my age, and we could 'sense' each other, what we both really were. His name was Tomas, but that doesn't matter. He was a dog, and he became my first true friend.  _

_ One day, he had fallen in love with a girl and decided he didn't want to live most of his life as a dog. He ignored my warnings and became human to be with her, and as the days went, he grew weaker. He would keep scratching at himself, uncomfortable with his human body. I told him to turn back but he ignored me, until he was in such agonizing pain that he couldn't fight it anymore. He screamed and howled, ripping at his skin, and it wouldn't stop. He— he had forgotten how to change back. _

_ He died not soon after, and I made sure never to fall in love with a human after that tragedy. _

_ So, when I saw George, I knew he was one of us, and I knew that he would join Tomas if nothing was done. I told him to leave, in hope that he was not as attached to you as I thought. But I was wrong. He loves you, and you won't be able to convince him to leave you easily. The only other option is to live with him, as a raven. However, I fear that although for me, living partially as both human and animal is doable, for him, I fear it may be too much. He’s not like Tomas, he can’t sense others… George might be too weak to live as both human and raven for a long period of time. It would most likely prolong his illness and suffering. _

_ You asked if there was a solution, and I should mention that Tomas talked about another way to save his life, a method that involved murder. He never lingered on it, not wanting to take another's life for his own, but if you are truly that desperate… I can’t tell you more, because I really don’t know anything else. _

John stared at the words. Murder. It felt unreal, the syllables feeling alien to him. Murder.

_ I hope it doesn’t have to come down to that. I’d like it if you both could live happily for the rest of your lives— I really do. But we have to face the fact that reality won’t allow for it. If there was a solution that could save him without consequence, I wouldn’t just tell you about it, I’d use it myself.  _

_ I wish I could tell you something else, but this is all I know. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Klaus Voormann _

_ P.S. While “animal-people” is accurate, please call us by a better name. I use “shifter,” personally. _

_ P.P.S. You know, we can also sense auras in other people. If you were a shifter yourself, you would definitely be a rat. Or a cat.  _

_ P.P.P.S. I also talked to Astrid; she understands and isn't upset at you. I don't hate you either, I too had made a mistake in my intervening. At this point, all I can do is wish you luck. _

That was all.

John felt a little dead after finishing it. He had a naive hope that Klaus would be able to help, that maybe he would have a magic potion or something equally ridiculous that would be able to cure George. The descriptions of Tomas easily painted a vivid picture of pain before him, explaining Klaus’s paranoia. If John would have to witness George suffering in the same way, he simply wouldn’t have been able to handle it. 

Before putting away the letter, John read it again for any missed lines, and then a third time to be sure. He folded it, tucked it in the front pocket of the inside of his jacket, and went to George.

“Hey,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

His hand clenched against the paper in its grasp.

John only wanted one thing: to live happily with George and love him. It was obvious, however, that he was never going to get what he wanted. He had to choose what to do moving forward, what the second-best option was. Either live with George until he perishes, live the rest of his life without George at all, or a compromise of the two: learn to live with him as a raven. And as much as John wanted to say that he could still love George even if he was a bird, he wouldn’t have been happy. He wanted to talk to George, hold conversation, feel his body, the way it settled against his own. He wanted to hold George's hand and kiss him and be held— there were so many things he wanted and he had to accept that he wouldn't be able to do most of it.

His heart felt like someone had chained an iron ball to it, dragging his soul down. Anger was an emotion that he had stopped feeling, as was sadness. All that remained was a resignation, the fact that this was happening and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

But… there was a fourth option.

_ Murder. _

God, he shouldn't even think about it at all, he didn’t even know  _ how _ killing someone would help—

But, but…

_ God, why am I doing this? _

If there was a way that taking another person's life would save George, would he? Could he kill in the name of love?

"John?" George asked, coming out of the bedroom. "What's going on?"

John looked at him, straight in the eyes (which were becoming increasingly bloodshot,) and broke his gaze.

It was hard, almost too hard, to have to tell him the truth.

"I don't want you to die," he said., pulling out the letter and holding it. "I talked to Klaus, and he—"

Something got caught in his throat. John forcefully swallowed down.

"—you have to live the rest of your life as a raven," he finished. 

"I know," George said. "But it won't be the same. I'm going to stay here with you— I've already made up my mind."

John didn’t say anything.

"If I get so ill I can't move, then I'll go. Because I know that if I were to stay here, as a raven, I wouldn't be able to resist turning human."

"I want to be with you, John," George said, leaning forward so that his forehead was resting against John's.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," John whispered back. There was nothing else to say.

Every day dragged on like an eternity. How could it not, with death looming over the two of them? At this point, all John could really do was hope that George could last until Christmas. It would be a good send-off, a celebration of life and love…

John closed his eyes as he rested against the wall. He couldn't say he was overtly religious, but sometimes he has to wonder if God put George on this planet just to make him suffer as a kind of cruel joke. Someone for him to love, all made to disappear in the end. What did he do to deserve such a punishment? Was he always destined for such hell?

"John? Are you in?"

He snapped out of his darkness-induced reverie and turned towards the door.

"I need to speak with you." It was Brian. What was he doing at the door?

John walked over and opened it.

"There's going to be a photo-shoot done for the new album cover. Can you and George get dressed?" Then, he paused, studied John's face, and furrowed his brow in concern.

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" he asked.

"...no, 'aven't." John must've looked as awful as he felt. "George's sick," he said, a whisper. 

"How sick? We can postpone—"

"No, don't," John interrupted, coughing. "I'll get him," he said, and closed the door.

The flat felt cold, empty, lifeless. It was becoming a tomb in John's eyes. Maybe that's what the hawk was, a demon to seal George in his prison. 

Maybe… John should just stop thinking and get George.

The windows were shut and the lights were off, creating a dark, stagnant chamber. George laid sleeping in the middle with several blankets thrown over him.

"Hey, George," John called, nudging the mass in the center of the bed. "We need to head out." The pile slowly began to shift, George crawling out from under it. He yawned, stretched, then rolled back over to fall asleep again.

"Come on, Geo," John said again. "Brian's waiting." George woke up again and practically fell out of bed, rubbing at his eyes.

John had to take a peek out the window, and when he saw that the devil bird wasn't there, he opened it slightly, to get the air circulating. The flat was starting to smell strange, like burning wood laced with lead. It made John a little nauseous at times.

Soon they were dressed, and John could see how Brian's face fell upon seeing George. He said nothing, but everyone was thinking the same thing. 

Brian drove them to London, where they would take the photo at EMI headquarters. He prattled on for a bit before realizing that neither of his passengers were interested in conversation. The drive was spent staring out of windows and dwelling on unpleasant thoughts. John didn't want to do this. He knew Ringo told Paul about what was happening, and the thought of Paul having to see him so dejected made him uncomfortable. 

The last time John was this despondent was when Julia had died.

But circumstances were different. For her, it was instantaneous and all the pain came from the grieving afterwards. With George, he was forced to watch him slowly degenerate and rot, just counting the days until George was no more.

It was like a switch flipped. 

Why was he doing this?

_ What was wrong with him?! _

George was dying, and John was moping around— Jesus, he only had so many days left and  _ he was wasting them!  _ Why was he mourning the loss of George when he was right next to him?

John grabbed George's hand and squeezed it, startling him awake.

"Eyy, Georgie, have a nice kip?" he asked. George nodded, stretched out again, and then brought his legs up onto the car seat, ignoring convention.

"Decent enough, I suppose."

"Well, anyway, I was thinking— since we're coming all the way out here— that we might as well do something fun."

At this Brian perked up, probably dying for a conversation. "There are lots of things you can do—"

"Wait a minute. It’s gotta be free, ‘cause I'm completely out of money right now," John said, and Brian deflated.

"Be thankful that I'm paying for your rent. What happened to the single sales?"

"Spent them on a gift," John said, flicking a small bug that landed on George's nose. 

"Well then, I guess you'll have to settle for walking around the park, then. That, or begging Paul for money."

" _ Epppppppyyyyy— _ " George cooed. "Surely you could spare a few pounds for your favorite Beatles?"

" _ This  _ is why Paul's my favorite."

"I thought parents weren't supposed to show favoritism!" John laughed, George and Brian following. If his manager was alarmed at John's sudden joviality, he didn't show it, instead appreciating it over the funeral-procession silence.

By the time they arrived at Manchester Square, John had managed to integrate his front of bravado so well that Paul and Ringo were shocked. He shook hands, gave them a smile and a wink, and they got to work.

The photographer's name was Angus, and the location was a long set of stairs. Before John could begin to climb, Brian pulled him aside.

"Don't stand next to George during the shoot," he whispered. He seemed embarrassed, ashamed he even had to ask.

"Got it!" he shouted "HEARD YOU LOUD AND CLEAR!" and then briskly marched up the stairs, taking two at a time. He envied George's ability to fly when he reached the top, panting and sweating.

The others soon came up, George also heaving for breath even though he didn't sprint like John had. John felt terror and despair grip him for a fraction of a second before George raised his hands, mouthing " _ I'm fine. _ " John quickly snaked an arm around George's waist and pulled him in close. He could physically hear Ringo roll his eyes. 

Paul wasn't as amused. Of course not, he was probably still getting over his attraction to John, of which he was still unsure was romantic or platonic. 

"Y'know, Brian doesn't want you two standing next to each other," was the first thing Paul said. 

"And why's that?"

Paul blushed. "Well, it's because—  _ y'know,  _ Y'know?"

"No, Paul, I don’t know," he said, relishing how flustered Paul was getting.

"John, whenever you two stand together, it's like this," Ringo said, holding up his index fingers. He then slowly slid them together until making them collide. "Like magnets," he said. "Mean, son, you're already doing it now!" he said, pointing at how John and George were glued at the hip.

John huffed, let go of George and looked down over the railing.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you can survive ten minutes without him," Paul hummed before standing next to John and leaning over the railing, before quickly leaning back.

"Vertigo," he said, raising a hand to his head.

John responded by leaning over further. Flying with George was an experience that made something the numerous floors feel like child's play. 

They smiled, took the photos, waited while Angus got the camera angle perfect, and soon they were all done. John firmly reattached George to his hip and the two went down the stairs.

"His hair's getting long," Brian muttered. "Didn't it get cut three months ago?"

George squirmed. "Uh, yeah, it did. What of it?" John asked.

"Well, since you're already dressed and out—"

John could see the George blanch, growing pale. A haircut for him must have been terrifying, with the reality of it being trimming feathers.

"John," George whispered. "Tell him I don't have to get a haircut."

"Eppy, I love you,” John began, “but he's not getting a haircut."

Brian sighed, crossing his arms while glaring at them. "He looks out of place compared to the rest of you," he argued.

"I think he looks very handsome," John said. George was looking rather pale lately, but that didn't change the shape of his face. Still the same cut cheekbones and deep eyes. John took his hand and tilted George's head up and moved in—

"Not in  _ public! _ " Brian hissed, inserting himself and pushing the two away from each other. "You two are completely ridiculous!" he chided, while George just giggled.

"Hello, gentlemen," a new voice interrupted.

John could see George freeze at the voice and he turned around to see who it was.

"Oh,  _ piss off, _ " John growled. Why did it have to be him of all people?

"John! You shouldn't speak to Mr. Martin in that way," Brian said, but John ignored him at the sight of the bandages on his head. He had a black eye and strips of white linen on his face.

"The hell happened to you?"

Martin grimaced.

"I got smashed upside the head by a bastard rat wielding a lamp."

“Oh, fuck—!”

“We have a lot to discuss.”

Today was a very, very bad day. 

Martin said he needed to speak to John and George and that he would take them home. It left Brian confused, but it was more at John's extreme anger. By the time they reached the park, he was on the verge of exploding.

"Should've gotten a sledgehammer," he growled. " _ Fuck you. _ "

"I know you're mad—"

"Oh, you don't even know—"

"But I don’t have time to deal with this. We need to talk about George."

John laughed.

"Oh, like how you tried to kill him? Hawks eat ravens, don't they?" he spat out.

"My plan was to make George so miserable he'd want to never be human again. I didn't account for the fact that he fell in love," Martin said.

"Just get to the point," John grumbled. "In case you couldn't tell, I really don't like you."

Martin reached into his coat and pulled out a wrapped item, much longer than it was wide.

"I'm only here because of George. We both know he's dying, and there’s only one way to save him."

For all of John's anger, he couldn't hurt insults and spit at George M. anymore. He was offering a solution, but John had to remain skeptical. 

Whatever Martin had in his hands was the answer to John's dilemma. Naively, he speculated on the shape. Maybe a wand, or a bottle? A magic artifact or—

No.

"That's a dagger, ain't it?" he asked, dread crawling up his spine. "Fuck, you think you can get me to kill because I'm desperate—"

"John!" Martin hissed. "I know you're tense but I didn't peg you as an idiot."

"What are you on?"

" _ Think.  _ Use your head and  _ think. _ "

John tried to, but hatred clouded his mind. Martin, as a hawk, tried to rip George out of the sky. Why did he have to play this game? Why can't he just tell John what to do?

After a minute, Martin spoke. "This is the same blade I used to become human," he sighed. "And if you want him to live, it'll be the blade you use as well."

John stopped and looked him in the eyes. Martin was human, and showed no signs of pain or illness. 

"Holy shit," John breathed out. "You're human."

"I see you're finally willing to listen."

"Yeah— doesn't mean I'm still pissed at you."

"Well, I'm still mad at you for bludgeoning me," he retorted.

"Aight, fine. Truce?"

Martin sighed. "Truce."

But before he could begin his rant, he looked to the treetops to see George perched, resting. He had turned into a raven and flown around, but got tired after a few minutes. It was odd, the man who could carry John across the sky could barely fly himself anymore.

"I thought you didn't know," he said, "which was why I had to harass George like that. I could easily tell he wasn't strong enough to be human."

"So animal-shifter-people have different levels of strength?"

"In a way, yes. I can tell he's spent most of his life as a raven. He's a lot weaker than he should be."

He then looked at John, dead in the eyes. That piercing hawk glare was something to marvel at.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, so listen carefully. There is a way to save George. I too had fallen ill and searched for a way to become human. I then found that animal-shifters are cursed. They're born from an error, the wrong soul in the wrong body."

"So you're saying he's a mistake?"

"In a way, we all are. He only has half a human soul, as we all do. But I was able to complete my soul using this," he said, unwrapping the dagger. Its silvery blade gleamed in the sunlight, contrasted by its dark, ornate hilt. 

"You killed someone," John said, "and used their soul to piece together yours." It wasn't an accusation or a question, just fact.

"Yes. I won't tell you to commit homicide, I won't encourage it, but if you decide that that's what you want to do, then I'll tell you what to do next." He handed over the dagger, and John gingerly took it.

It was impossible to fully fathom, murder. Would he? Could he? Should he?

"...can it be anyone?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"As long as they're alive. You use the dagger on the victim—" John cringed at the word— "and let their blood pour out onto the body of the person you want to help. I couldn't bring myself to murder, so I had to pay them, the people who gave me this dagger, to kill for me."

John said nothing.

"I asked them to find someone who was already dying, as a sort of protection for my conscience. ...They most likely lied to me about where the body came from anyways," he said wistfully.

John looked at his reflection in the dagger.

"I've never been ill again, aside from regular colds and the like. Nothing life-threatening. I felt immense guilt since that night, but that was years ago. Now all I have left is that old knife, which belongs to you now. Making peace with it all, in a way."

"...thanks," John said. "I don't know if I… I'll do it, but thanks."

"If you want to live with him as a human, it's the only way. If there was another, I would have used it."

"And it has to be with this dagger?"

"I'm certain. There were no magic circles or chanting, just me, the dagger, and the victim's blood."

The last obstacle then, was to kill. John's hand tightened around the hilt of the blade.

"I've overstayed my welcome," Martin said. "I'll drive you home now, and..."

"And what?"

"You  _ will  _ keep everything we discussed here a secret."

" 'Course," John said. "Who would believe me anyway? Magic rituals and bird-people… me whole world's gone daft."

"It's a tad unfair… being born only to die, but that's the reality of it."

"Would you… want me to kill? To save George?" John asked.

"I can't make that decision for you," Martin said. "Only you and George can decide what to do."

The dagger weighed heavily in his hands.

"Please," John said. "Please just take us home."

Martin nodded, and they shuffled into his car. George turned back human, but stayed silent, wary of the predatory hawk chauffeuring them. John couldn't think of anything to say, just glaring at the twisted knife in his hands. George Martin used it in his ritual, but how many other times had it been used? Was it soaked in dozens of innocents' blood?

On the way back, Martin explained the story to George, which helped ground John. His mind was drifting away and the repetition grounded him, telling him,  _ This is real. _

It was the divine solution John had begged for, but now that it was in front of him, he faltered. Could he pay the price? Everything he wanted was right there, all he had to do was this one simple task. 

The dagger almost seemed to move, silently laughing. 

He closed his eyes and asked for darkness to wash over him, block out these terrible thoughts that settled in his mind.


	41. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning, descriptions of murder as well as child abandonment in this chapter
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

The dagger, locked in a drawer, was frightening. Everytime John closed his eyes, he could see it taunting him. Even his dreams became corrupted, showing him what he could have, if only he were brave enough to take the plunge.

Even now, he was asleep dreaming of a world he was never in. Everything was the same, except that George was born human. He never could become a raven, and everything was different, distorted through warped glass. 

He saw George more confident and cocky, more mature and reserved. It was the same person, but not. Did that make sense? Did anything?

The band was different too. George was in it for years already, having joined at Paul's request after becoming friends on the bus. He was good, but not as good as John's version of George. This human George played with a pick. He had short hair and a thicker accent, a heavy drawl that was so familiar, yet so alien.

Even John himself and Paul were different. Paul teased George, joking and laughing with him in a way he never would have in real life. 

Such parallels were disorienting, strange. In this world, one where there was no magic, no raven, George would live. Yet John didn't want it. He wanted his version of reality, the one where George could fly. Was it selfish? Yes, but John found he couldn't be content with someone else, even if he was George too. How silly. How preposterous.

With a grunt, John forced himself to wake up and get out of bed. The impending doom was getting to him, even his dreams weren't safe. He needed to make a choice soon. He needed to—

He passed by the desk, the drawer where the dagger was locked up in. Slowly, John took the small desk key and turned in in the lock. With a click, the drawer slid open, and the blade stared back.

_ No. _

He quickly shut the drawer and locked it again. He talked to George about it, and George too felt conflicted. The lad was too altruistic to contemplate murder. He told John so, and John was relieved at the fact that he didn't have to choose anymore.

Yet the dagger still beckoned him. It was always there, watching, waiting for john to just man up and  _ fucking kill someone already! _

John shook his head; everything was getting blurry. In a rushing bout of dizziness, he stumbled, and grasped the wall as an anchor.

He wasn't going to kill. He wasn't.

But what if he did? There was a humane way to do it— find someone already at death’s door and finish them off prematurely. He could find someone suicidal, or a serial killer and remove them from existence. Surely a murderer had less right to live than George. It would be justified.

But then there was the issue of the police. John thought he was smart, but if anyone went missing, there would be an investigation. Maybe he'd crack and confess and that would be how it ended.

He could do it, John could kill. George could live, if John just killed.

A throbbing headache forced its way to John’s skull and he raised his hands to cradle his head.

He could… find someone forgettable, like a lone, old, homeless man on the streets. He could strike up a conversation, learn about his lonely old life and invite him home out of the generosity of his heart.

_ "You can take a rest in the bed," he’d say and the old man would agree, thankful for this kind young man offering him a stay inside. John would offer him a cup of tea, and he would relish the taste, reminding him of times that were long gone. He'd go to the bed, shed his shabby clothes, and fall asleep, so exhausted from the hassles of his pathetic life. Then, groping around in the bed, he'd find George, still, neigh-comatose.  _

_ "Hello, old man. Do you see George there, sleeping in the bed? He’s the love of my life, and I'd do anything for him." _

_ The beggar would grow scared at John’s mannerisms, his eerie calm, not understanding what was happening. He’d get up to leave, but the tea he drank, something was in it. Why wouldn't his body move the way he wanted it to? Why was John laughing, what was happening? _

_ John would take the dagger and quickly plunge it into his neck, covering his mouth so he wouldn't scream. He'd start stabbing the man like a pincushion so he'd bleed out everywhere, the mattress getting soaked in red.  _

_ Blood, blood, blood, it would go into George, his body writhing with the newfound vitality that pumped into it. _

_ "Wake up, George," John would call, and George would rise up, see what John did for him. "Look at yourself, alive and healthy again!" _

_ George would rise up, reborn, his body no longer pale and emancipated.  _

_ And then he would see the carnage and  _ **_scream—_ **

Seeing Georges terrified face broke John's illusion. He moved to rub his eyes, tell himself it was a bad dream, but froze.

The dagger was in his hands.

When did he get it out? He hadn't noticed at all… but it didn't matter. The blood splattered visions that assaulted him were enough to dissuade him. He couldn't kill. John Lennon was no murderer.

Even if the moral dilemma didn't exist, the fact was that he wouldn't be able to kill someone without the police getting involved. He could hide the dagger, destroy evidence, but they would find him. There's no way John could risk it.

So if he was going to save George, and wouldn't kill, then there was only one other option.

Himself.

John could give his life for Georges. He wouldn't regret it either. George deserved to live as much as anyone else, and John knew everything that would be lost if he was gone. If he took the life of some stranger, there was no way to know who it would impact. His victim, whoever they were, may have been someone else's lover, and their death might be as devastating as George's was to John.

No, there was no way he could justify playing God and choosing who should live and who should die. The only life he had power over was his own…

But that wouldn't solve anything either. George wouldn't be happy without John. He wouldn't mind giving his life, he really wouldn't, but he couldn't imagine George being happy with the thought of John dead. He'd probably be wracked with guilt considering that the only reason he became friends with John, turned human, was to repay John for saving his life. 

John cast one more forlorn look at the sealed dagger in the drawer and walked away. George was asleep in the bedroom, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead. Placing one hand on his shoulder, John leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

"I'll be back soon," he said, and left the flat.

Even if John believed his world was falling apart, time didn't stop for him. There was still the band and gigs, and John promised he'd do his duty, even if it meant not spending time with George.

The Cavern, somewhat of a second, or third, (or seventh,) home was dark. He had to wonder if the owners were tired of seeing the four-man band come in as a trio. The club had an air of defeat, the crowds more lifeless than John had ever seen them before. When they began to play, it was obvious why.

Their best player was gone and the performance suffered as a result. Even to newcomers, who didn't know the full lineup could tell that something vital was missing. John tried his hardest, he really did, but couldn't seem to muster up the energy. Everything was wrong, and he didn't know how to fix it—

_ Aside from forcefully taking someone else's life. _

John had to stop himself from scanning the crowd for potential victims. He was not goong to kill.

When the show ended, Paul pulled him aside. "John," he said. "You need to tell us what's going on." Him and Ringo were staring at him with their big, downturned eyes.

"I… don't know," he said, slowly, as not to lose composure. "He's sick, and..." John faltered. The words were stiff, leaden. "If he doesn’t get better, he'll have to go."

"...what do you mean, 'go?'"

John took a deep breath. "He can't stay human much longer or he'll die. That's all there is to it."

He didn't look at their faces, but John knew that Paul must have been angry; after all, the band was officially dead.

A hand fell on John's shoulder and to his surprise, it was Paul with nary a hint of rage, just sadness.

"Will you be okay?" he asked. Now, John was a Northern man, they all were. But something in the tenderness of Paul's voice, that simple question, made him want to cry. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

He couldn't say anything in response; saying  _ yes  _ would be a lie, but he didn't want to admit how much he was hurting. Should he mention the dagger and what George Martin said? A part of him hoped that maybe Paul could volunteer for him— but he couldn't dare do that to them. He smothered that thought down as deep as he could. 

There was only one other plan he had. It was a small worm burrowed in the recesses of his brain. A plan so ridiculous that it would most likely backfire, but he kept thinking about it.

"Hey lads? I got a math question for you." The non-sequiteur confused his companions, but they played along.

"Alright… but I'll warn you, math ain't me strong suit," Ringo said.

"Dont worry; it's easy. Now, imagine you have a pie—"

"What flavor?"

"Does it matter? It's— let's say its apple. Now, you have a whole apple pie, and your friend only has half an apple pie. What do you do?"

"Well, I'm assuming I paid good money for me pie," Paul said.

"Yeah, you did, but your poor friend is  _ starving. _ "

"I suppose the fair thing to do would be to give your mate a quarter of your pie so that you both have three quarters each," Ringo said.

John smiled; that was the answer he wanted to hear.

"That's all well and good, but why are you asking us? What do pies have to do with George?" Paul asked.

"Listen, Paul. I know I've had some really bad ideas in me life."

"That's an understatement," Paul huffed.

"But I'm gonna pull off the most daft scheme of the century."

"John, what are you on?"

"Lads, if all goes well, then we'll all get together and have ourselves a party. All four of us."

"What are you talking about?" Paul asked.

John grinned. "I'm going to cheat death."

He left to head home, leaving a very confused Paul and Ringo behind. He had a plan now, a very poorly conceived one. If it backfired, John had a very real chance of dying, but if it worked…

Oh, he truly was mad.

When he got home, the lights were off, as usual. Ever since John spoke to Martin, he stopped circling outside the flat. Fresh air filled their home, as well as the faint sounds of traffic and pedestrians.

George wasn't resting in bed, but was sitting on the windowsill, legs dangling over the edge, back facing John.

"I'm home," John said, but when George didn't respond immediately, he began to worry.

"...I went out today," George said. "To find out where I came from."

John held his breath. He had always wondered too, but doubted the story could be good if he had no memory of his parents and they ignored his existence. 

"So I flew around, just looking for something. I flew around in Speke, just looking."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

George paused. "...yeah, I did. I went out tons of times looking, and today, I finally went in. Might as well," he added, "since I'm going to be leaving soon."

"Did you meet your—"

"Me mum? No, didn't. Something told me I shouldn't, and I'm glad I did. I snuck in," George said. "Everything's in the box on the bed."

John turned, and saw it. A lacquered wooden lockbox, with a scratched up gold keyhole sat there. The lock had been forced open, and when John pried the lid up, the hinges squeaked.

The musky smell of smoke filled the room. There were photographs, black and white, of a family. John looked at one that stood out to him. It was of a boy with a lopsided grin, smiling at the camera while squinting from the sun. He didnt even need to flip to the other side to see that it was George. Looked just like him, even down to the intense gaze and dark hair. 

The other photographs were from earlier. George, almost unrecognizable as a baby, with two parents, two brothers, and a sister. Next to them, a birth certificate, some legal documents from a registry or a hospital, and a small, black feather.

"So that's your family, then?" They seemed nice, lovely. The photographs made them appear friendly with their smiles and the way they held George.

"The diary," George said. "It's all in there." He didn't specify what 'it' was, but John picked it up and carefully turned the yellowing pages.

John flipped through the pages. It was the diary of a girl, writing about trivial things like school and boys. It wasn't until he found a page from 1943 that mentioned George's birth. The book must have belonged to the older sister, for it refered to "Mum" and "Dad." The brothers names were Harry and Peter, and her own name was Louise, from quickly checking the cover. John couldn't help but feel like a snoop, sticking his nose in business that wasn't his, but George gave him his blessing. He began to read.

_ I have a new baby brother named George. Mum's been resting ever since she came home so Dad's been watching him. He told me to keep and eye on Peter and Harry so that they don't bother him while he sleeps, but I get worried. While I'm happy he doesn't cry like other babies, he's very quiet. Dad thinks he might be deaf or dumb, Mum tells him that he's fine. I sneak in to look at him, and he just stares, either at you or out the window.  _

_ At least he's not annoying like my other two brothers.  _

John read the passage carefully. He could see George in his mind, ominous and dark. He flipped ahead, yearning to find out more. The pages were full of interesting little anecdotes about this family, but John needed to get to the point. George went missing when he was seven, so he flipped ahead to the entries later ahead. He found that the diary was only half-filled and began to read at 1949.

_ We just moved to a new home, and George was throwing a fuss. He complained about how cold the old house was, and having to pee outside, but now that we're in the new place, he keeps throwing a fit. It's crazy, he's never been this loud about anything! If something bothers him, he usually just bites whatever it is, which he still hasn't grown out of. I thought he was my favorite, but I wish Dad would make him stop wailing! _

John turned the page.

_ He's been getting sick lately. He's always been ill, something that bothers Dad, but we take care of him. His crying has gotten worse, he keeps hissing like a wild dog. We have to lock the door and windows because he's always trying to climb out of bed and go outside. Today, Harry told me that George was possessed by a demon, but Mum and Dad got very angry. I don’t know whats happening with George, not even the doctors know what to do. _

The next entry was worse.

_ He was bleeding today. George kept screaming and scratching at himself. Nothings helping, and now Mum's making us pray for him. George won't even speak anymore, just howling and roaring. Sometimes, when I'm trying to sleep, I can hear him trying to break the window to get out. Dad's had to resort to tying him down in bed so that we can sleep. _

John had to put the small book down. Did he really want the conclusion to this story? The next entry was written with significantly messier handwriting.

_ I'm scared. George, he wouldn’t stop screaming, and then he suddenly went silent. Mum went upstairs to check, and we all thought he died. But then she came running down to Dad, crying. She grabbed us all and took us out back, sobbing. Dad went in, and all we could hear was George's screaming, and then silence. Peter wanted to see, but Mum held him tight. But I saw Dad through the windows and he was dragging some kind of monster through the house. Soon, he got in the car and drove off.  _

John had to stop.

"George, did you..."

"Read all of it? Yeah," George said.

The journal still hade two entries left.

_ No one talks about him. Harry and Peter ask about George, and Mum gets a funny look and asks "Who's George?" Peter said he was happy George went away, that the screaming was too loud, but sometimes I can hear sniffling coming from his room. After that night, I snuck and overheard Mum and Dad talking about George. Dad said he couldn't kill him, so he left him up north in the woods. Mum keeps saying he was possessed the devil. She keeps crying whenever no one's looking, and Dad keeps staring out into space. Everyone's just so terrified but no one says a word. Sometimes, I think that George was just some bizarre nightmare, and that he was never real at all. All his photos were taken down, and if it weren't for this journal, I might have believed he never existed at all. _

The last entry:

_ Mum's making us put everything in a box. All the photos, all the papers, anything about him goes in. I'm hiding his diary from her, because I don't want to forget. I miss him. He was weird, but he was my little baby brother. I don't know what happe— _

The passage abruptly ends there. Louise's mother must've walked in at that point and confiscated the diary.

_ You wanted to know what happened, John. Here's the mystery of George's past solved: his parents thought he was a demon when he was seven and they dragged him out to the middle of nowhere. Are you happy that you know, now? _

He knew George's past wasn't pleasant, but the truth stung, and he could only imagine what George was thinking right now. John climbed onto the windowsill and sat next to him in silence.

"I woke up in the woods and spent my life there. I didn't even know I was human at all."

John held his hand, feeling how cold it was.

"I thought that was all there was to life, being a raven and nothing else. But I wasn't happy. I though I was, but being with you… I was so horribly lonely."

"I'm sorry," John said, "that you were robbed of a normal life. You didn't deserve this."

George looked him in the eye. "Don't be, please. I—" his voice wavered. "I'm just—"

George put his head down and wiped at his eyes. John didn't know if he could handle the sight of George crying.

"I'm just glad that I got to spend what little time I had with you," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't imagine having a better time with anyone else." He was smiling, even with the tears streaming down his face.

"I'll miss you," he said, voice barely audible. "You were the best person I've ever met." George rested his head on John's shoulder, most likely the last time he ever would. They stared out at the night sky, George's heavy breathing leveling out. The tears were soaking through to John's shirt, George sniffling.

John realized he had never seen George cry before, and to see him break down while smiling and telling John how much he loved his time spent with him as human— it was all too much.

"George," he said, surprised at how broken his voice sounded. "I… I want you to stay, for one more night."

George nodded, too choked up to speak.

"I wouldn't trade away the time I spent with you for anything," he went on. "And— and—"

He wrapped an arm around George and held him as close as he could.

They couldn't say anything else, just enjoy what little time they had left. 

_ This is it,  _ they both thought. For George, the end of his human life and everything he had learned to love.

But for John, it was to be the end of his pain. There was nothing but determination brimming in his soul. He had one last gambit, a final plan to save George. He was tired of losing he people he loved, and he'd do what it took to keep George.

Even if it meant cheating death itself.


	42. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood
> 
> hope you enjoy!

They went to sleep together, embracing each other as closely as they could, for it was their last moment. George would leave in the morning, and they would have to live their lives as though the past three months had never happened. 

It was doable, but John knew he would hate every second of it. He had never fallen this hard for someone and wouldn't be able to move on for a very long time. 

Even though George had already passed out, John just couldn’t sleep. He looked at his sleeping lover and sighed. These days, George had spent more time unconscious than not. Soon, John told himself, soon he would be better.

Slowly, he crept out of the bed, feeling George's warmth leave him. He walked as silently as he could to the desk, unlocked the drawer, and pulled out the dagger.

_ This is it, John. No turning back now. _

The blade pulsed in his grasp, writhing as though it were alive. It must have sensed what John planned to do and could smell the blood about to be spilled.

With the dagger in hand, he went to the phone and made a call. The operator patched him into London, where he prayed the other person would pick up.

Despite it almost being midnight, George Martin was able to answer.

"George," John said. "It's me, John. I—" He took a deep breath. "I found someone. Tell me what to do."

He could hear Martin clutch the phone tighter. John himself could barely hold the receiver in his hands with how drenched in sweat they were.

"Do you still have the dagger?" Martin asked.

"It's in my hand."

"And is the victim alive?"

"Yeah, they are."

Silence. Then:

"All the magic is in the blade already. You just have to finish them off and let the blood flow over George."

"That's all there is to it?" John asked.

"Yes. After this is done, we'll never mention it again," Martin said. It was a small stipulation compared to the monumental task he was about to undertake. 

John said nothing else, opting to end the conversation by putting down the receiver. He wasn't going to implicate Martin for murder. Honestly, he was envious that Martin had the courage to take what he wanted. It was something that John could never force himself to do.

If he strained his ears, he could almost hear the dagger whisper to him over George's soft snoring.

Mechanically, John let one foot fall in front of the other, marching to the bedroom. He pulled the blankets and pillows off of the bed to make cleanup easier. He would have to wash the sheets when he was done, but that was fine. Something like that was trivial when you were about to play with lives and souls.

John positioned himself over George, sleeping peacefully. John sighed, took off his shirt and looked at his bare chest. 

For a moment, he just stared at all the scars that littered him. There was the jagged gash in his abdomen from shortly after he met George. Little pecks and scratches were scattered all over the surface of his body. John chuckled to himself; being with George had been a hazardous occupation. 

But sometimes, love makes you do crazy things.

John held the dagger so the tip was right where he was knifed before. His hands shook as his heart pounded into his chest. 

Was he really going to do this? He could just put the dagger away and accept his fate… Say that his plan was crazy and wasn’t worth the risk and just take whatever destiny had in store for him— 

_ NO!  _ he mentally screamed and plunged the blade into his gut.

Now, John had been stabbed before, so he thought he knew what to expect. But this time, perhaps it was the magical nature of the wound, or the fact that adrenaline wasn't blurring his senses, but it  _ hurt. _

White-hot pain shot through him, and John pulled the knife out as quickly as he could. But even though the blade was out, it still burned. Static filled John's ears as he frantically held his hands to the wound, trying to stop the blood flow.

Why did he think this was a good idea?

In his head, he thought he could give George a part of his soul so that they could both live together, but that wasn't how magic worked. You can't just cut your soul into neat little sections and share them, no matter how simple it sounded.

John kept bleeding through his trembling fingers, his blood feeling like a tightly wound cord someone was tugging on. The tendrils of red were going to George, soaking into his skin. 

John couldn't stop himself and began to moan in agony. The pain was only getting worse, and the edges of his vision were getting blurry. Even his thoughts began to get less lucid.

_ George,  _ he thought,  _ he deserves to live— I- I'm not upset, I'm not— _

Even if his plan to share part of his soul failed, at least George would get to live. It was the second best thing, giving life to someone who was robbed of it. The band could go on without John… George would have his friends to help him out—

He was sorry that George was going to have to live with all this guilt and pain, while John would be dead before he could face the aftermath. It was unfair, but life had been cruel to George. John was only trying to right a terrible wrong.

It was getting harder to stay upright, his whole body feeling like it had been filled with boiling oil. Even so, his extremities began to grow cold and numb. Darkness was setting in soon.

John collapsed and felt himself lose definition. The shape of his limbs, their weight, he was beginning to forget what they were like. Soon, his limbs were unable to move, melting away into nothingness. 

The senses became dumb and dulled, everything from the smell of blood to the hazy sight before him disappeared, leaving John cold, dark, and alone.

His thoughts echoed across the empty void he soon found himself in.

_ So this is how my life ends…  _

He wished there was something in the void to look at, to latch onto.

_ You did your best, John. You tried to cheat the rules and little and it didn't work out. But George will get to live again, get to have a human life that he was always entitled to. And if we both die… well, we could be together in heaven… _

He looked around him and saw nothing in the void. Well, even then, he couldn't see anything. It wasn't like when you close your eyes and see nothing but darkness, the sensation of sight itself was gone.

_ I guess not… this place is more of a purgatory. There's no one and there's nothing here.  _

John closed his eyes to rest, but found that he couldn't feel if he had eyes or not. He was just  _ there,  _ existing. Although, was this existence? All he was now was a bundle of thoughts and words, throwing them out across the abyss. 

_ Death isn't as scary as I thought it would be. Not pleasant, but it's not bad. It's just nothing. _

He tried to think back on what it was like before he came into the void, but found that he forgot. Every memory he had was gone. How long had he been here? There was no way to tell. He didn't even know if he was a 'he.' How could he know that he was something? 

He waited, finding that thinking didn’t do anything. There was nothing to think about. 

_ This is the end,  _ he said, not knowing what an end was or how he could tell that  _ 'this'  _ was it. 

He let the void grow still; the miniscule thoughts he conjured died down. 

Everything…

Stopped… 

And he was no more…

…

  
  
  


…

_ Wait. _

His thoughts started up again. He didn't know why, but there was something here.

He felt something, and as he thought about what he was feeling, the words came to him. 

_ It feels heavy, and warm…  _

The sensations came back to him, and he found himself remembering what hot and cold and heavy and light were. 

He kept feeling the sprawling mass under him until he slowly realized what it was.

_ This is my body, my human body. I remember this— you can move it— _

An arm jerked up. How did he know it was his arm, and how did he know which way was up?

More sensations came to him. There was a force pulling him down, gravity. He learned about gravity in school, and marvelled at how his mind began to construct a hazy image. He saw desks and pencils and papers and there was a teacher and him—

He remembered what he looked like. He had a long, straight nose and auburn hair. And he liked to wear clothes and, and—!

As the memories came flooding in, John found himself overwhelmed. John, that was his name! 

Everything returned: trees and sidewalks and houses and his home and Mimi and Paul and music and art and Elvis and his Mum and life and the sun and the wind and the air, do you remember the sky? 

He could see colors and names and places and things— 

And George.

_ George! _

Where was he? Where was George? 

John opened his eyes and saw a blur. Everything was grey and moving too fast for him to see.

But then he began to feel again. Not just his body, but the things that were touching his body. There was a carpet, rough against his skin, as well as something warm and wet all over him. He felt the sensation of pressure against his stomach, and tried to look at what it was with his eyes, but it was still too blurry.

Wait, there was something new—  _ sound,  _ he realized. He could hear a rhythmic pulsing, no, two of them.

_ That's a heartbeat. I almost forgot. Everyone has a heartbeat, everyone who's alive. _

_ So if there's two of them… then that means there are two people alive… there's me, of course… so the other person has to be— _

_ George. _

He wanted to scream his name, but found that he was too weak to. His chest wouldn't take in air, and his mouth couldn't form the shape it needed to. 

If only his eyesight would return! All he had to rely on was his ears, for he couldn’t even reach out with his arms. 

Then, he heard more. It was so far away… but shrill. It sounded like… screaming? No, it was a wailing, crying. His vision came back, albeit terribly fuzzy, and John saw a mass before him shuddering and shaking.

So much was happening; John’s body felt like it was being pumped full of electricity. He felt so tired, but something told him that if he were to fall asleep now, he wouldn't wake up. 

The hazy figure before him froze, then lurched forward so that it was inches from his face. 

That was— 

"...George..." John rasped out. "...are we dead?" he asked.

George shook his head. There was a red puffiness around his eyes.

"John, we're alive," he said, crying. "We're  _ alive! _ "

John couldn't recall what happened next. All he could do was focus on George's face and the sound of his voice, but soon it began to fade. But instead of that endless void, it was unconsciousness.

“John,” George’s voice called. “Hey, stay with me! John, JOHN!”

But John couldn’t hold on anymore and let himself pass out, assured that George would be there when it was over.

He fell into a timeless sleep, the kind where it feels like time skips while you’re unconscious. There were no dreams, no thoughts, just his body and mind recovering. 

Then, the sounds of a radio hit his ears.

_ Exploring new artists, next up we have an upcoming group from Liverpool, The Beatles—  _

_ This next song is the B-side to their new single, Please Please Me, released this week, it's Ask me Why! _

John listened to the hum of the radio.  _ How egotistical,  _ he thought, _ to wake up to your own song? _

_ Ask me why, I'll say I love you— _

_ And I'm always thinking of you— _

He had been so wrapped up in the dagger and George that he didn’t know that the single came out. 

...where was George?

John opened his eyes but everything was still indistinct. He could only see things right in front of his face. But in his periphery, he knew he wasn't at his flat, but somewhere clean and white. An IV monitor beeped behind him. 

_ This must be a hospital,  _ John thought.

Then, he heard a gasp and a door closing. Soon, several tall objects began to shuffle into the room. They must have been people visiting, but John couldn’t tell who they were.

Then, he was assaulted by a barrage of voices:

"Is he awake?"

"John, John!"

"I can't believe—"

"Please open your eyes—"

"—was so worried—"

"Everyone, give him space!"

That last one was loud and clear, must have been Brian. 

"John, how do you feel?" a female voice asked.

He wanted to ask  _ “Who are you?”  _ but no words came out.

When had speaking become so hard? His mouth was all dry. "Where's George?" he choked out. He needed to know.

He heard Paul stutter. "He's, ah, he's in the next room. He woke up a bit before you."

An involuntary urge to scream came over John, but his throat was so hoarse that it came out as a whine. He was  _ alive,  _ and awake!

"I need to see him," John rasped out. 

Ringo then chuckled. "Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance. You know, the first thing he did when he woke up was ask about you."

"But nevermind all that. John, what happened?" Brian asked.

"Honestly, I think I died. I don't remember what it was like, but—"

"What happened before that?" Brian asked, his voice starting to get a little clipped.

John was about to spill about the dagger and the ritual, but caught himself in time. "Don't remember, everything's hazy," he admitted instead.

"Honestly, John," Paul said. "You got stabbed again."

John nodded, then asked for a glass of water.

"How can you be so calm?! Most people go their whole lives without getting knifed and you managed to do it twice in a year!" Paul exploded, Ringo laughing more. The nurse, who John could see was an older woman when she got close, handed him a glass and he drank from it greedily.

"Trust me, it's not an enjoyable hobby," John said, voice still rough, but better. “What happened to George?"

Brian straightened. “He got stabbed as well.”

“W- _ What?! _ ”

“Yes, at midnight...” Brian went on but John couldn’t hear him.

George got stabbed as well? That would mean that… 

John shook his head. It had become a struggle to keep his thoughts straight as he mentally reconstructed past events.

John stabbed himself,  _ died,  _ and George must’ve woken up to his lifeless body in a pool of blood. He must have seen the dagger and the wound and operating on pure instinct, plunge the dagger into himself. There was no way George could have thought it through.

John would have been a stone cold corpse if it weren’t for George. John might have started the crazy scheme, but George finished it.

“John, are you even listening to me?” Brian asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Sorry… just spacing out. What did the police say?” John asked, guessing that the authorities got involved somehow.

Brian sighed as he repeated himself. "At midnight, George started screaming and woke everyone in the building. Someone called the police, and when I got there, both you and George had stab wounds. The police say that someone climbed in through the window and got you both… but that’s not what really happened, is it?"

“I think I need to see George,” John said as he leaned forward to jump out of bed, but quickly realized something was wrong. His body felt weak, like his muscles had atrophied and his bones turned to sponge. 

_ Of course you'll feel weak. You're missing a chunk of your soul! _

"Oh, fuck—" he cursed. His entourage reached forward to steady him, which he allowed. He was so exhausted— never had he had so little energy.

But he was alive! And so was George! God, how he wanted to see him…

“I’ll get Mr. Harrison,” the nurse grumbled. Her voice was raspy and worn, definitely a heavy smoker. When she left, Paul spoke up.

“Listen,” Paul whispered. “I know this stabbing had something to do with animal magic.”

John cast a sideways glance at Brian.

“Paul and Ringo filled me in,” Brian said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John growled, “Just spill George’s secret to everyone while you’re at it.”

“Come on, the crime scene was unreal when Brian got there,” Paul said.

“The blood, it was flowing between you two, like a chain connecting you. It was flying out of the carpet and the sheets and into the air,” Brian said.

“You know, Eppy, you seem awfully calm for someone who just found out George is a magic bird man,” John croaked.

“Honestly, it makes more sense than believing otherwise,” Brian replied. “But enough about that— John,  _ what happened? _ ”

"Remember when I was talking to you about pies?" John asked Ringo and Paul.

"Very clearly," Ringo said.

"Yeah, well… you see, George was dying because he only had half a human soul, and I had a whole soul—" John began and watched how Paul and Ringo's eyes widened.

"Oh my  _ God! _ You're insane! Completely daft!" Paul yelled. "You stabbed yourself to give him your soul?!"

“Yeah, the dagger, it was enchanted for this kind of thing. I thought that if I only stabbed myself a little, then I would just give part of my soul to George… didn’t anticipate the blood gettin’ sucked out of me.”

Brian spoke next. “So George used the dagger on himself to equalize your souls, then.” It was bizarre to see someone who John considered to be intellectual and formal talk about magic rituals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"And here I was thinking it was some kind of suicide pact," Ringo muttered. "So you're missing a quarter of yourself then?"

"Well, he certainly looks like it," Paul commented.

"Why? How bad do I look?" John asked, looking for something to see his reflection in, but there were no mirrors.

"Here," Paul said, handing him a small handheld one from a nearby table.

They were right: he looked like he was half-dead. His face was pale and gaunt, and his whole body looked thinner, more emancipated. Even stranger, his hair lost its vibrant red tones. It was still auburn, but extinguished.

He looked more like George, he noted.

But before he could muse any longer, fast-approaching footsteps could be heard.

"Mr. Harrison!" the exacerbated nurse shouted as George slid into the doorway. 

George—

He was there, and time stood still as John stared. 

George, alive.

More than alive, he looked healthy, more so than he had ever seen him.

Even with the thin hospital gown, John could see how different he looked. His skin was no longer a pale grey but a warm pink, his hair gone from raw ebony to a deep brown.

He looked amazing, brimming with life. John, honest to God, started to tear up.

With far more energy than any stabbing victim would have, George ran across the room and jumped into the bed, on top of John. He grunted at the sudden weight but the sound was quickly muffled by George kissing him. 

They pulled apart as soon as the nurse caught up. 

"Mr. Harrison, please get off of him!"

"But I—"

"No buts!"

George whimpered, but complied, kneeling next to John. "You’re mad," he whispered to John.

"I know."

"You could've died!"

"I know."

Then, George began to smile, misty-eyed. "There's no way I can ever make it up to you," he said, grabbing John's hand and leaning in even closer.

"George, you already have," John said. "Right now, right here, I have everything I'd ever want."

They stayed there, just basking in each other's presence and the miracle that they were both alive. That John was willing to stab himself for George and that George stabbed himself without a second thought to save John and how universal law deemed that they both got to live.

"You really cheated death," Paul said. "Only you could've pulled that off. Only you, John." 

Ringo smiled. "Luckiest bastard in the world," he said.

Honestly? With George by his side, he had enough good fortune to last him a lifetime.

"Now, I know you're all glad that he's well and good, but Mr. Lennon was just stabbed and needs his rest," the nurse grumbled.

Everyone in the room began to protest.

"Oh, come on!"

"Please—"

"—did not drive here just to be thrown out!"

"Let us be, yeah?"

"Just a few more minutes—"

"Alright, alright!" The woman shouted. "Are you trying to wake up everyone? It's three in the morning, for crying out loud!"

"Apologies ma'am. We'll try to wrap things up," Brian said with a polite smile.

"I'll give you five minutes," she said, muttering under her breath: "...good grief."

Everyone was sad that they were forced to leave, but it was early and they were all exhausted. John didn’t want to admit just how little he was hanging on. With one last farewell, they left, not fully understanding the miracle that had occured but still grateful nonetheless. Paul and Ringo went first, but not before Paul promised to bring him something tomorrow. Brian simply said: “See you tomorrow,” before heading out, leaving him and George.

And the jaded nurse.

“Alright, you too,” she said, grabbing George’s hand.

This time, George didn’t protest, having seen the heavy bags under John’s eyes. They reached the doorway, and George casted one long, last look at John.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

“I should be saying that to you,” John said.

“Enough of that,” the nurse said, tugging on George’s arm. He waved goodbye, and then he was gone.

John fell asleep not long after, his mind visited by vivid dreams.


	43. Home

Ever since waking up that initial day in the hospital, John felt unreal. It was all over. All the stress and tension that had been building up was suddenly released, energy washing out and leaving him both weightless and drained. He slept for most of his stay, only waking when the grouchy nurse told him he had yet another visitor.

Paul was the first one to visit him, smuggling in some lemon bread because of the poor reputation of hospital food. John was pleased to find that his appetite hadn't diminished, taking three slices off the loaf and leaving the rest for George. Yes, it was unhealthy, but he didn't care. He craved something sweet and Paul managed to sate him quite well. 

Over time, John had realized how much he had taken Paul’s companionship for granted and pulled him by the sleeve when he was about to leave.

“Thank you,” he said, finding himself tearing up. “It’s a miracle you stuck with me for so long.”

Paul grinned. “You keep giving me reason to come back,” he said.

When Ringo came by, he told John how he wrapped up George's gift for him, something John was grateful for. They talked about magic rituals and George and how John could've asked him to fork over a bit of his soul too.

“But I had no idea my plan would work,” John kept arguing until Ringo gave in.

“But if having 75% of a soul isn't enough, get the dagger and find me,” he said. “Paul wouldn't mind either… hopefully.”

John thanked him but had no plans to use that wretched blade again. He didn’t feel like himself as much anymore, but was that a bad thing? It was like closing a chapter and starting another.

Brian stopped by later, asking more than his fair share of questions about the entire animal-shapeshifter business. He took every answer John gave him with patience and understanding, taking it all incredibly maturely. 

He also revealed how when he arrived at the scene of the crime, he had the foresight to hide the dagger before the police arrived. It was currently stashed between John’s mattress and the bed-frame. There was a spike of anxiety in John’s chest when he mentioned it, but he quickly dismissed it. Of course he was nervous; that dagger had ripped John’s soul out of him. The sensation of his blood worming out of his body was hard to ever forget.

Brian then apologized about the news. Apparently, word of the stabbing got out, especially how it was John’s second, and it caused a small stir (which led to free publicity for the new single.) They had a chuckle about it, and he left.

In between visits, John napped, waiting for him to be good enough to get out. George Martin didn’t check in until three days after the incident.

“You should be dead,” he said. “Your plan shouldn’t have worked.”

“Aye, you’re right. The second the knife went in me, I knew it wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Then how—”

“It was George. Saw the knife and stabbed himself with it. Took our souls and put it in a cocktail shaker and poured them out,” John said.

Martin stared at him in silence. Then, he spoke. “There’s something truly remarkable about you Lennon. I know you're missing a large essence of yourself, but you're more human than most people out there.”

He added in a whisper: "...more so than me."

He left, but would periodically stop by as a hawk. According to George, he would bring him fish, while giving snacks to John. 

George spent every moment he could with John, talking about any and everything. John was grateful, for his own voice was weak and it was adorable to listen to George gush about the silliest topics. He could honestly talk for all of England with how long his rambles became. But whenever they had a moment to themselves, a nurse or doctor would spot George and drag him back to bed.

Even so, George didn't need any rest. Him leaving was more for John's sake, who could never seem to get enough rest. He was sleeping and eating well, but his stamina refused to return. He still looked like he was dragged out of hell, which was true considering he  _ died—  _ but the memory or what it was like to be dead faded. His knife wound was healing cleanly, most likely due to the magical nature of the stabbing. George's had healed faster, leaving nary a trace of a scar on his immaculate skin. There was no need for blood transfusion or surgery, much to the shock of the doctors. Within a week, they were cleared to leave, all signs of the assault gone.

But there was this nagging feeling that even if the wounds were gone, the consequences weren't. And when John tried to stand up, he felt just how truly weak his body had become, falling to the floor. He blushed as the doctors put him in a wheelchair and pushed him to the doors. George, of course, refused to leave without John, and the two were checked out at the same time. The second they were out of the building, John jumped out of the wheelchair.

"I can fucking walk," he grumbled, shaking the wave of vertigo that hit him. They meandered home, George walking slightly in front of him for the majority of the walk. John realized with growing dread that he was getting tired, already feeling weak and dizzy as he tried to keep up. He stumbled, then quickly crashed into a nearby bench.

"George—" he rasped out. "Please, hang on." He was panting, as if he had just sprinted down the pavement.

"John?" George asked. He looked so beautiful and healthy, John's vitality must have gone straight to him.

"I'm sorry, I'm just so  _ tired.  _ Need a minute to catch my breath." How sad it must've been to be gasping for air after just walking.

George stared at him for a moment, then spoke. "It's okay," he said, gently grabbing John's hand. "We'll figure things out together, alright?"

"Okay," John said, unsure of how to continue. George smiled, then scooped up John to hold him, bridal-style. 

"What are you doing?" John asked, wrapping his arms around George’s neck.

"Walking us home," George simply replied, marching back down the pavement. Passersby stared at the couple, and John felt himself grow hot under the collar, (even though he was still in hospital scrubs.) He felt weak and embarrassed, like he was some kind of damsel that couldn't care for himself. He wanted to be put down and began to squirm.

"John," George said. "You've done more than enough for me. This time, let me take care of you."

John huffed, but was grateful that George was carrying him. The first time he met George, he carried the wounded raven back to his flat to nurse him. Now, there was a strange role-reversal, but John found he didn’t hate it. It was definitely better than walking home. He never envisioned ever growing this attached to George, this hopelessly in love. Past‐John would have laughed at the thought of becoming soulmates (literally!) with the naked stranger. 

"Okay," he said, and the two went home.

John's full strength never returned, but he learned to live with it. He surrendered control and let George take care of him. With the new changes, he had to put away the old.

And so, John found himself yet again holding that damned knife. It hummed with unnatural energy, still as potently powerful as before.

George looked at him, and spoke. "We should send that to Klaus."

John broke out of his reverie. "What?"

"We should send it to Klaus; he can use it."

"I was thinking of throwing it into the middle of a lake, like Excalibur or something," he admitted. "I want it gone— but your idea is a lot better."

And so, they carefully wrapped the dagger and John set to compose a letter, taking his time.

_ Dearest Klaus, _

_ It’s me again! I am pleased to report that neither me nor George are dead. It may come as a surprise to you, but we actually managed to cheat death in a way. There’s this big dagger, hard to miss, that can siphon souls. I stabbed myself with it, and George did, and now we’re both alive and have three-quarters of a soul. _

_ Now, I know you’re thinking, “That’s mad!” and it is! Although George is bouncing off the walls, I am most certainly not. It’s different, and hard at times, but I don’t regret my choice one bit. Now you, on the other hand… You can get a group of five people and take turns with the dagger so that everyone’s got 90% of a soul, or what have you. I’m not telling you what to do, and if you throw the dagger away, that’s fine— we’re just giving you the option.  _

_ Personally, I’d keep it because it is a rather nice looking piece of work— something that would look gear on your wall, maybe. _

_ And yeah, the knife stabbing hurt, but it heals really cleanly if you’re worried about that. The dagger was given to me to save George, and now it’s going to you if you want to go out as a human more often. And hey, if that fails, you can give it to someone else who might need it. _

_ Best of luck! _

_ Rat bastard~ _

John sealed the letter, but not before doodling little rats and mice and ravens on the page. Once the dagger was gone, John would be resigned to this life— the one where he and George were a chaotic couple where one of them could turn into a bird.

What a wondrous and wild life to live.

With the package secured, John was going to leave until George stopped him.

“There’s one more thing I want to take care of,” he said. “The box.”

The wooden lock-box that George stole from his family— 

No. Referring to them as his family was wrong— and he told George that.

“I don’t blame them,” George said. “Maybe it’s because I don’t remember any of it for myself, but I would have been scared if I were them.”

“Come on, Geo, stand up for yourself here!”

“Not everyone is like you, John. But I think deep down that they miss me.”

“And how can you be sure of that?” John had to ask. George looked down at the box.

“If she really wanted to forget about me, she would have thrown the box away,” George said. “I want to give it back, and tell her that I’m okay and that I don’t hate her.”

John would have screamed and hissed if he was George— to be abandoned by one’s parents and not resent them took an amazing amount of forgiveness and willpower. 

“...are you going to tell them in person?”

“No, I don’t need to— Maybe I’m afraid, but I don’t need to meet them. I already have you,” George said to John. “Now, come on, I need your help writing.”

John wrote a small note, forgoing his usual messy script for something more legible. They put the note in an envelope and tied it to the top of the box, but not before George put a new, larger feather in the box. They wrapped it all in string so it wouldn’t accidentally open, and soon set out.

They left the flat, John holding the package with the knife, and George holding the lockbox. They took their time walking, John finding the trek rather lengthy, yet manageable. They stopped by the post first, praying that no one would try to take a peek at the gilded dagger inside. 

It was taking care of business, burying the reminders of the past to move forward. There was no more need for John to keep the dagger, for he was happy. 

After a short bus ride, they made their way to the small cul-de-sac where George used to live all those years ago.

John had to admit to himself that George would have been equally happy, maybe even more so, if he was born human and raised here. John doesn’t know if they would have met if George was human, or hit it off nearly as well, but…

He liked what he had, and George did too. There was no need to overthink it, just to be content with what they had acquired.

George placed the box down in front of the door, and his hand lingered in the air. He was going to knock and leave before anyone could see him, but it was hard to make the first motion.

“George?” John asked, but George wasn’t listening. He saw the silhouettes of a woman, his mother—

“Sorry,” he said, and then knocked four times before sprinting off. John followed as fast as he could, and soon the two were out of sight. They waited for a few minutes, then went back, just to get a look. The box was gone, most likely inside the house now.

“You did the right thing,” John said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I would’ve hit her, most likely.”

George was silent.

“Hey, it’s for the best,” John said. “Now let’s get some lunch.”

George kept staring at his old house. Then, he began to smile.

“Can we go by the tackle shop and get some worms?” he asked.

John chuckled. “As many as you want,” ruffling his head. 

With one final glance, they left, hand in hand.

The sun was setting by the time John and George got back to the flat. They were seated on a bench right outside, John sipping at a milkshake he felt the impulse to splurge on, George eating a small tub of worms. 

John had to admit that drinking a milkshake in December was a poor decision, but it was nice and sweet and creamy… made John feel comfortable and warm inside despite the temperature.

George took a large sip and continued munching away at his worms. John buried his nose in the crook of George’s neck, which was covered up in puffed up feathers. He was glad George could still transform, not only because it was heavenly in the cold weather, but because it was a core part of him. 

“Hey George?” John mumbled through the thick crown of feather.

“Mmhmm?”

“Can you give me a worm?” he asked, eyeing the small container George clutched. He could see George’s eyes widen, but he complied, placing one of the worms in John’s mouth.

He chewed.

And swallowed.

“Not as bad as I thought they’d be,” John mused, causing George to chuckle.

“I think part of me bird soul went to you,” he said. “But it’s good, yeah?”

John nodded. “You know what else is good? Being here, with you. No more drama, no more mysteries— just the two of us, sitting on a bench, eating worms and sipping at milkshakes. It’s daft, y’know? But I love it— I love all of this, being with you.”

John slowly let his eyes close as George ate. This was life, this was happiness. 

In his mind, he could see Past-John grimacing as George pecked a small kiss on John’s forehead.

_ It’s weird, bizarre. I’d never think I’d end up here in a million years, yet here I am. I- I don’t regret a single thing… Even if I did at the time. So much happened and there’s still so much to do in the future. Things weren’t perfect, far from it, (did you forget who you were dealing with?) but they could handle it. _

John looked at George one more time.

“You ready to head out?” he asked.

George nodded and the two of them set home, illuminated by the glow of the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, then I want to say thank you for sticking with me and this wild story I dreamed up. When I stared, I didn't have a plan for where the story would go-- I just let it be. I've had so much fun writing this and seeing people's reactions (my favorite being uncontrollable screaming!) 
> 
> It was all just a blast; I just want to say thank you again!


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